Stuck in the Middle With You
by LaPetiteSinge
Summary: Post-Mexico, Sands is teamed up--sort of--with a professional who just might be his match. FINISHED, finally, after 5 years. NOTE: Secondary category is actually Elektra, but she doesn't have her own listing, sadly.
1. Chapter 1

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer:** Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

* * *

Elektra jogged along the path by the beach, the ocean crashing beside her. It was already close to sixty degrees out, even though it was early April and only seven in the morning. She didn't know why she hadn't left California as soon as the job was over, but something about the place had made her stay. Her previous job had been in India, and it had required two weeks of reconnaissance before the actual hit; she wondered vaguely why she hadn't sought out somewhere cooler by now. Not that the heat really bothered her all that much—she hadn't been particularly sensitive to temperatures since...well, for a while now. Besides, it was good for her to take breaks, she decided. Pace herself. Break up the flow. It had been two weeks, but she doubted she'd stay much longer. She'd leave as soon as she got bored; never mind the fact that she'd paid three month's rent, in cash, on a small apartment by the beach. Money, at least, was one thing she never needed to worry about.

The cell phone clipped to her hip vibrated suddenly—she had never been able to find a ring that didn't annoy the hell out of her. She stopped on a dime and, glancing around, answered it. "Yeah?"

"Is this Joey's Pizza?" a wary voice asked. She smirked—this was a job, that was the code phrase. She loved thinking up the most asinine phrases possible and listening to the pained way in which clients, who were usually very important businessmen and government leaders, muttered them on a call. If they wanted her, they'd have to work for it. "What can I get you?" she replied wryly, settling down onto a bench.

"Come to 779 Sunset at nine tonight, and we'll work out the details." The voice of the man on the other end now sounded silky and confident, now that he'd gotten that vexing first bit out.

Elektra rolled her eyes. She hated it when clients pulled this cloak-and-dagger shit just because they were hiring an assassin. Usually clients gave her the basic information first, and they met later if in fact she decided to take the job. "You've got me now, just give me the details here," she said irritably.

"This is a very delicate matter, and discussing it over the phone would be imprudent," the man replied, even more smoothly. She considered hanging up right then—a 'delicate matter'? _Right, because when dealing with a contract killer, it's usually rather casual. _But the man continued, "We intend to make it very worth your while, Ms. Natchios."

"Do you," she replied, saturating her voice with sarcasm. "How worth it?"

"We'll tell you everything you need to know tonight," the man smarmed back. She didn't reply, and apparently seeing the need to sell the idea a little more, he added enticingly, "Have you ever been to Virginia, Ms. Natchios?"

Elektra arched an eyebrow. Well, now, that was moderately interesting. Virginia, as in Langley—as in CIA. She hadn't worked an American government job in nearly a year; they were always just challenging enough to be fun. "Fine, nine tonight," she said shortly into the phone, and hung up without waiting for a reply. It was important to never let the client be entirely in control. Just let them think they are. Elektra got to her feet and set off to finish her run.

* * *

Eventually the nastily hot day turned into an unpleasantly humid evening, and Elektra set off for Sunset. She walked, of course—a car, to her, was nothing more than a tracking device for the cops. She'd owned one a few years previously, but it'd gotten very tiresome, changing the license plate every other night. She'd eventually gotten fed up and let it accelerate off a bridge, watching amusedly from a distance as other drivers jumped out of their cars, looking horror-struck into the water below and calling the cops on their cell phones. She was four cities away by the time they pulled it out of the water. If she needed one now, she just stole one and left it behind when she was done.

The Los Angeles sky turned to a dull, polluted-looking puce as she finally located the 700 block of Sunset. 773, 775, 777...Florescent pink and green script flashed "GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS" brightly over her head on the next building, and the dingy numbers on the door said, quite clearly, 781. Elektra spent thirty full seconds fuming on the spot and wondering who had tricked her, and who she was going to kill for it, before realizing there was a narrow alleyway between 777 and 781. She slipped between the two building, dryly admitting to herself that any client who would demand a meeting in a seedy neighborhood at nighttime would indeed do the thing properly and find the shadiest little hole in the wall possible in which to meet. Sure enough, there was a worn wooden door in the wall, and she knocked on it twice.

It opened the tiniest crack. "Yeah?" a gravelly voice demanded, and Elektra heard the sound of a gun cocking in preparation. She rolled her eyes, knowing that was entirely meant for her.

"I'm here for..." She cursed to herself, realizing she'd hung up the phone without even getting a name. "I've got a nine o'clock meeting," she finished, annoyed.

There was a pause, and the door opened all the way. Whoever had greeted her at the door, though, had apparently vanished. Elektra stepped through the door, and found herself unconsciously clenching her fists. Not a moment too soon, it turned out, for a split second later the door closed, plunging her into almost complete darkness, and someone grabbed her from behind around the neck.

She was ready, of course, and threw an elbow back into the assailant's face, hard. He stumbled backwards, releasing her, and she spin-kicked him into the wall. She heard another figure approaching from down the opposite end of the hall, and she waited until he grabbed her wrist before dealing a swift roundhouse kick. It caught the man, she gathered, right in the sternum, and she used his gasping curse to direct her in the darkness as she drew a knife from her side and drove him against the wall. Her arm was raised and speeding downwards when another door behind her flew open, bathing the scene in dimly golden light. Elektra whipped her head around, and saw, to her slight surprise, a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a suit standing there looking vaguely amused.

"That will do, Ms. Natchios," he said to her, as though addressing a particularly gifted preschooler. "Release him, if you please."

Elektra looked back at the man she was pinning to the wall, whose eyes were fixed in horror upon the hand grasping the knife, which was frozen in midair six inches from his throat. Comprehension dawned on her, and her lip curled in anger. "What is this, a test?" she demanded furiously, without moving. "Are you kidding me with this?"

"We had to make sure it was really you, Ms. Natchios," said the man in the doorway, seeming utterly unperturbed that she still appeared to have every intention of killing the man in front of her. "You understand...there are so many counterfeits out there, and we need the best." He gave her what he clearly thought was a charming smile.

"And you clearly sent your best men to test me, I'm so flattered," she sneered back at him; her captive was nearly in tears for fright now. "Oh, get out of here," she added to him, throwing him contemptuously from her, where he tumbled to a heap on the dirty carpet. "God." She turned back around to face the suited man in the doorway, still holding the knife in her hand. "So what is this?"

"Please, come inside," he replied, stepping aside to reveal the room behind him. She glanced inside, and realized she was in what had once been a motel of some sort. The room looked as though it had been rearranged, the bed pushed off to one side and the desk in the middle of the room, manila folders stacked neatly upon it. A light on the ceiling shone dully, occasionally flickering in a feeble sort of way. Elektra stepped past the man and into the room, glancing warily around. He closed the door behind him; two men in similar suits flanked the door like sentries. She gave them a sarcastic nod and sat down at the desk on the side facing the door, in the bigger chair. The man who had opened the door looked slightly taken aback for a moment—clearly, that had been his seat, and she was meant to take the folding chair opposite, but she never sat with her back to a door. It might not have been that dangerous, considering the laughable 'attack' she'd just fought off, but still, it was habit.

The suited man eased himself into the folding chair, and gave her that same serpentine smile as before. "Ms. Natchios, I'm Agent Hansen, United States Central Intelligence Agency."

He apparently thought this would impress her, or frighten her, or something. It did nothing of the sort; she merely raised an eyebrow and said in a bored voice, "And?"

He chuckled slightly. "And we need your help with something very important."

This was getting ridiculous. "Yeah, figured that much out," she replied. "Let's cut the 'Spy vs. Spy' crap, shall we? Who's the mark?"

In response, Hansen took the first manila folder off the pile and slid it across to her. She opened it and glanced at the photo within, and felt the faintest trace of surprise. "Curtis McKean?" she said, without needing to glance at the name. "Director of Central Intelligence, well..." She closed the file and looked back at Hansen. "Ballsy."

"Mmm," said Hansen, giving her a slightly mocking nod. "He recently received some incriminating information involving myself and a few colleagues that we had hoped to keep private. We rather think a bit of staffing reshuffling would be prudent."

She nodded. Standard stuff. "What're you into? Drugs, guns, sex?"

"A little of everything," he replied lightly, and she smirked, despite herself. "Anyway, there's too many involved to remedy the situation any other way, so..." He spread his hands, as if helpless.

She shrugged. The details didn't really matter to her. "Well, I charge a bit more for high-end political jobs."

Hansen's smirk widened. "Of course, Ms. Natchios," he said, in a falsely humble tone. He took a pen from his pocket, and leaned across the table to write something on the folder. "This is what we're prepared to offer, overall." She looked at him in confusion for a moment—she had been about to specify just how _much_ she charged for high-end political jobs; it was most uncommon and frankly, a little presumptuous, for a client to suggest their own price. But when she looked down at the folder, she was sorely glad she hadn't voiced this opinion. It was another rule of hers to never, ever, ever look anything other than mildly interested, bordering on bored, in front of a client, no matter what they said, but it was a close thing this time. Elektra forced herself to look disinterested, but it was a close thing. The amount on the paper was more than she'd been paid for her last three jobs combined. "Is this amenable to you?" Hansen asked, knowing fully well that it was.

"It'll do," she said roughly. Then, deciding his current smirk was far too knowing, added, "I'll need half up front. Now, as a matter of fact." She usually didn't demand it five minutes after being hired, but she wanted to test him and see if he'd really go through with such a promie.

He didn't blink, though, and he made a vague motion over his shoulder at one of the goons by the door, who wordlessly picked up a duffel bag from the floor and handed it to Hansen, who never took his eyes off Elektra's face. He passed it to her, and she resisted the urge to bash him across the face with it.

"Fine," she said, trying not to glower. "Anything else?" She started to pick up the file, hoping the meeting was over, but he held up a hand.

"Yes, a bit," he said, once again sounding like a politely stern professor. She waited. "It's important that the hit take place at headquarters, rather than in McKean's home. And as you may have expected, security measures have been tightened significantly in the past few years."

"It's not a problem," she interrupted brusquely. "I've gotten past pretty much everything out there."

"I have no doubt of your skills, Ms. Natchios," he simpered. "But this is state-of-the-art equipment. There are personalized scans and codes required to get anywhere within the grounds of the agency. Therefore, you will have an...escort."

"No," Elektra replied flatly. "I work alone."

"I'm not sure you quite understand—"

Her already simmering temper rising, she stood up so suddenly she saw both men at the door reach instinctively under their jackets. "No, I don't think you understand," she said icily. "This isn't a matter of debate. I work alone. This isn't the fucking A-Team here. You hire me, you get me, that's it." Hansen said nothing, but took a second manila folder from the stack and opened it, pushing it towards her. Her next words vanished in her throat.

Her own face was looking back at her. Clipped besides the photograph was a memo, the words "Possibly Resurfaced" in bold letters across the top. A chill stole over her.

"Apparently, Ms. Natchios, there was a rumor going around for some time that you were dead," Hansen said, his words light, but his tone every bit as dangerous as hers had been. "Needless to say, you had been of great interest to the agency up until that point. But now, as you can see, it appears as though you have...come back to life, somehow." Somewhere under her sick feeling of dread, Elektra felt a ripple of sardonic amusement. _Oh, if you only knew. _"If you are willing to help us, I assure you this file, and any like it that should ever turn up again, anywhere, will disappear, once my colleagues and I are in a position of power," he continued.

"And if I don't," she cut in, her voice quiet with rage, "it'll suddenly be filled with useful new information about my whereabouts?"

"Of course not," said Hansen, and for the first time, the predatory look was gone from his eyes. He appeared to thinking the very same thing she was—that if was thinking about blackmailing her, he and his two buddies would be dead in less than a minute, and she would be out of the country in less than a day. "It will simply go back where we found it. You can always disappear, but..." He shrugged delicately. "We're offering total immunity and protection. It's in your best interest."

She thought fast. Yes, she could disappear, she rather had a knack for it...but it would be so much easier, knowing she was safe from at least one country's government. And it really was a fucking boatload of money. She allowed a long moment to pass before saying, entirely tonelessly, "What do you mean by 'escort'?"

Hansen seemed to take this as acquiescence, but this time he didn't smirk. He passed a third file to her and, sitting back down slowly, she opened it. A man looked back at her—or rather, sneered back at her. He looked as if the photographer had just done something extraordinarily stupid before hitting the shutter. Dark brown eyes peered lazily from a chiseled face, surrounded by carelessly messy brown hair. Twisted smile, more of a smirk, really.

Before she could ask, Hansen was speaking again. "Sheldon Jeffrey Sands," he said, as if reading lines from a cue card. "Joined the agency in '85, after being hand-picked from his class at Princeton by Edward Gray." Gray, Elektra knew, was the former Director, before McKean.

"Top of his class, was he?"

"Hardly," Hansen said, and now the smirk was back. "He was on the verge of being thrown out. Brilliant student, but slight problem with authority." He paused. "And generally getting along with others."

She glanced back at the file, lifting the photograph to look at the pages beneath. Phrases jumped out at her: _College roommate alleges Sands set his bed on fire...Dean of students alleges Sands was caught on school property behaving lewdly with dean's wife...high school principal alleges Sands caused extensive damage to school's pottery closet with a fire ax_... She fought the urge to snicker. "And this is the sort of guy you want joining up, is it?"

"Once we saw the way he shot a gun, yes," Hansen replied dryly. "No one could get on the inside the way he could. The drug dealers, the mob bosses, the dictators, they all...just seemed to trust him, for some reason."

"Mm, I'll bet," she said contemptuously. Then she looked up at him. "Wait, what do you mean, 'the way he _could_'? What happened to him?"

"Well, it's in the file, but..." This was clearly the part of the story Hansen was dying to tell himself, so she just looked at him expectantly. He stretched back luxuriously, as much as he could in a folding chair, and continued, "Few months ago, we discovered a plan to hit the Mexican president. We knew there'd be all sorts of characters involved, so we sent Sands."

"What'd he do?" Elektra asked, intrigued despite herself.

"Gave his reinforcements the slip two days in, and got himself mixed up with the Barillo cartel," he replied. Elektra gave a derisive chuckle - she knew them, all right, had even done a job for Barillo himself once. Last time she'd had a job in Mexico, though, she'd gotten in their way and ended up having to take a month off to recover. She'd missed three potential jobs, and her shoulder still ached sometimes. "What'd they do to him?"

"Took his eyes out with a power drill, no anesthetic," Hansen said with relish.

J_esus Christ. Guess a torn rotator cuff isn't so bad._ "Wow," she said blithely. "Sucks."

"And managed to take out nearly all of Barillo's men after that," he continued, sounding like a ten-year-old reciting the plot of his favorite comic. "By the time it was all over, Barillo was dead, most of his men were dead, and the President was alive. Sands came out of it looking like a hero in a Greek myth."

"Looking like?"

"Well, once we got him back and he was in the hospital, we had a chance to look through some of his personal belongings. Looks like he'd had as many extracurriculars as we had, although not quite as creative. Still, enough."

"Enough to what?"

"Enough to convince us that he could be an asset to us, and enough to convince that it would be wise for him to rethink his loyalties—not that he really ever had any—and to assist us. He was rather easy to convince, frankly."

"He was—assist you—_wait_ a minute," Elektra snarled, finally understanding what he was driving at. "_This_ guy? This is my 'escort'? This, this..." She pounded the table furiously as she searched for the word, making the men at the door jump. "You're trying to tell me I've got to work with this fucking blind sociopath? Are you _kidding_ me with this?" Without letting him reply, she barreled on, "Why is he even still working for you? Shouldn't you just have handed him a big fat check, thanked him for serving his country and sent him on his way?"

Hansen outright laughed at that. "We probably should have," he mused. "But some of us felt...well, I felt, that he might prove useful sometime in the future. He's still a brilliant agent." He paused, grinning rather idiotically. "Blind sociopath though he might be."

"So…what, I'm supposed to baby-sit him? Keep him out of your way?" she sneered at him, still boiling. This was so not how it worked.

"Hardly. You see, as I said, the security measures have been tightened. To get into many of the areas at headquarters, one needs to get past a fingerprint scan and—" he actually looked like he was going to giggle "—a retinal scan."

Elektra clenched her teeth, not sure if she wanted to keep shouting at him or laugh herself. It was too sick, too funny. She closed her eyes briefly to compose herself and then said, very evenly, "So?"

"So, after Sands' little...accident..." (he really looked close to hysterics now) "Sands was given a temporary pass code. Instead of the scan, he just enters a number, along with the codes for the individual buildings. However, it's just a generic code, not a personalized one. His fingerprints register as his own, of course, but the code could be combined with anyone's prints."

"Somehow I doubt mine will suffice. Besides, as I said, I can get past those systems."

"I'm sure you could," he said, still in that maddeningly polite way. "And you'll need to when you actually intend to do that hit. But I presume you intend to do some reconnaissance beforehand?" She nodded shortly. "Well, then, Sands will accompany you to headquarters during the day so that you can do whatever background work you need to do so that no breaches in security are registered. Then when you perform the hit, you'll use his access code and then override the fingerprint requirement with your—" he made a deferential gesture "—own talents. By the time the breach is discovered, you'll be long gone."

She considered him. It made sense, to a degree, and it would make things marginally easier, but it seemed overly complicated and risky on his end. "It'll be obvious that I had inside help," she pointed out. "If I use his code."

"True," he agreed. "That serves our purposes as well." He didn't clarify more than that, but she didn't press the matter. She didn't much like the idea of skulking around the headquarters of the CIA with an agent by her side—she'd be disguised, of course, as a precaution, but having someone else with her would make it harder for her to slip around unnoticed. Then again, perhaps having him by her side was the perfect disguise. It was a new challenge, anyway. He watched her for another moment, and then said, "So, Ms. Natchios, do you find this agreeable?"

She scoffed, still not loving the idea. Still…the vision of all those zeros shimmered tantalizingly before her eyes. And unless he was lying, which he didn't appear to be (she was very good at deducting that sort of thing), this would be one of the easiest jobs she'd ever worked. It wasn't often a client virtually handed her a key to the mark's front door. And Director of Intelligence...that was pretty big. Might it lead to better jobs, higher prices? It was just too tempting.

"Fine," she said, trying not to sound as grudging as she felt. "But this guy had better not get in my way." She punctuated this statement with her steeliest glare, and he got the message.

"Excellent," Hansen replied smoothly. He produced an envelope from the inside of his jacket and placed it on the table. "Your boarding pass," he said, in response to her blank look. "Leaves at 12:45 tomorrow afternoon from LAX. Gate 47." She raised her eyebrows. Clients occasionally provided transportation, but not often. It was a surprising perk, especially on top of the absurdly inflated salary he was offering. She gave him an approving nod to acknowledge the generosity and picked up the envelope. For good measure, she picked up Sands' file as well. "Just want to have another brief look at this," she said, imitating Hansen's oily tone. He just looked evenly at her and said "Mind you don't lose it, now."

"Oh, I won't." She stood up to leave. "That all?"

He gave a mock-courteous nod. "We'll pick you up at the airport in Langley, information's all in there," He gestured pointlessly to the envelope. She returned his nod and started to leave, but Hansen, standing too, spoke again. "I rather thought you would have enjoyed the company of a blind man, Ms. Natchios. Rumor also has it you have some experience there."

She turned to face him, her anger rising like mercury again. He was wearing his most self-satisfied smirk yet. It was partially because of this, she guessed, that it made such a satisfactory sound when her fist connected squarely with his teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer:** Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

* * *

Sands sat alone in the almost-empty bar, smoking his fifth (or maybe it was sixth) cigarette of the day and listening to the jukebox behind him play the same tuneless songs over and over, the records skipping forlornly every so often. He absently fingered the gun in his belt, wondering if today would be the day he finally turned around and put a few rounds into the damn thing.

Five months had gone by since Mexico. Five months since he had been found still leaning against that building, chalk-white and delirious from blood loss, singing quietly to himself. They'd found his badge on him at the hospital, and within hours a swarm of agents had descended on his room, asking him over and over what had happened. They told him later they hadn't been able to get a sensible word out of him for days (although he was told that he kept saying something about pork to anyone who was around. He didn't bother to try and clarify). It took a long time for him to remember everything. The last thing he recalled distinctly was sitting in that cow place, feeling a sharp pain in his neck and seeing her smirking at him. And he didn't remember the actual sight of the drill, which was probably a good thing. The sound of it, though, he knew would never leave him; in the hospital he'd heard someone buffing the floor in the hall and had started to shake uncontrollably, actually becoming nauseated with horror. He didn't think the full enormity of what had happened to him had hit him at all that day—all he knew was that he had some people what needed killing, and he had to do it any way he could. He remembered something about a boy, and a cab, and gum (although that part made no sense, he'd always hated gum worse than death). He remembered shooting, although that was a fairly common instance in his life, not much use in putting the pieces together. To his own slight surprise, he didn't even really recall much pain. That came later, in great crashing waves.

No, the only thing that was absolutely vivid was the memory of her, the way she grabbed him roughly from the ground, the smell of hot sand and blood mixing with the scent of her hair, the way her lips felt on his, and the way her whole body jerked with the shot, the way she seemed so surprised, and how she died without a sound. He had left that part out, of course, when attempting to explain to his superiors what exactly had gone down, but he knew the memory was burned into his brain forever. The scene played on an endless loop in his head as he lay in the hot Mexican hospital room; that plus the unending searing pain prevented him from a moment's sleep, so he lay there for days, unsure if it was day or night, tormented to the point where he could think of absolutely nothing else and found himself tugging vainly at the IVs in his arm, hoping one of them would be the magic one and it would all be over. It was strange, but the loss of his eyes actually concerned him less than the fact that it was her, she had done this, she had stood over him with that look on her face and watched him bleed, watched him try to scream. He, of all people in the fucking world, had been felled by love.

Well, not _love_, of course. But what, then? Whatever that _thing_ was, the thing that made him keep her around, the part of him that didn't mind having her around and hadn't grown bored with fucking her and was intending to share his newfound wealth—and his life, really—with her. Most people would have called that love, he thought bitterly, and that was what made it so terrible: his cheap, half-assed, dime-store parody of love had had the horrible ramifications of the real thing. What a rip-off. She was just the first person he'd slept with and then kept around for other things. She was good at her job and good in bed and all right to talk to, that was all. She'd been there for a while and it was fine; it wasn't something he felt the need to change, and so he didn't. Simple as that. When he'd been scheming down there, he just figured he could use her and she'd be in it, along for the ride. He didn't even remember deciding that. It just made sense at the time, and that was good enough. That was one of the things he dwelt on: how _could_ he have fucked up that badly? He had just _assumed_, just trusted her because they'd been around each other for a while. And even worse—_w__hy_ was he still thinking of her? Not just of his own errors, but _her_? He didn't care. He'd done what he had to, and he was glad. Hearing her fall heavily to his feet had been incredibly satisfying, he wasn't sorry he had done it, he would have done it again, and again and again—but then why wouldn't she leave his head?

_See anything you like?_

_You really didn't see it coming, did you._

No, he really hadn't.

The only good thing in all of this—actually, 'good' wasn't strong enough. The only completely hilarious thing in all of it was that the agency had no idea, really, about any of it. He'd received a hero's welcome back to Virginia; as far as they knew, he'd been successful. Barillo was dead, Marquez was dead, the president was alive—and they had no idea El had been involved at all; most of them didn't even believe he was real. On some of Sands' past assignments, on all of which he had done things his way, so to speak, he'd had to be very careful to cover his tracks before reporting back to Langley. This time, on his most massive fuck-up ever, he hadn't had to do a thing, they had made all the right assumptions. The irony was delicious.

The novelty quickly wore off, though. Upon returning to the States, he'd been given "as much time as you need" off. At first he'd been quite content to take an extended vacation, but he soon found the solitude unbearable. He couldn't stand the silence of his apartment; he still couldn't sleep for more than a few hours at a time and he kept his gun in his belt every moment. (They had, at least, had enough sense not to bother trying to relieve him of his firearm, apparently understanding that it would be a complete waste.) He jumped at the slightest sounds, which all seemed so much louder, and had terrified a pair of Girl Scouts out of their wits when he'd fired a shot into the door frame when they'd knocked on his door one afternoon. After a week and a half, he couldn't take any more and returned to work.

It turned out to be just as bad as staying at home, however—stupid fuckers coming up to him _all day long_ and clapping him on the back, demanding jovially why he was there and not at home, enjoying his well-deserved break. Then they would get solemn and say how they thought, he had done his duty as an agent and should be proud, really. (He hadn't even been able to come up with a suitably snarky reply to any of it yet, a fact which depressed him endlessly.) It was a full month before he realized that they'd really meant the first bit. He hadn't been given a single assignment of any form since he'd been back, but of course they couldn't outright fire him. As soon as it had become clear that he wasn't going to step down with dignity, there had been no other choice but to humor him for a while, dropping more and more frequent hints regarding his departure, and then eventually just fire him, or ignore him altogether, or send him on a mission from which there would be no coming back, or something. He'd always known they regarded him as a wild card, unstable, impulsive—an asshole, basically. But a useful, valued asshole. Apparently, a blind asshole was no good to them. The thought infuriated him more than he would have guessed; he hadn't realized that the job actually meant anything to him; few things really did. But when he thought about the fact that Mexico had pretty much been his last act as a federal agent, he felt white-hot fiery anger licking at his insides, and soon he couldn't even stay on agency grounds anymore, it was too much. He was fairly certain he was going to blow off the head of the next person who called him a "trooper," anyway. Ironically, it was only in this dingy Mexican-style bar that he found any kind of solace. He had taken to spending most of his day there, in limbo, smoking and drinking tequila and waiting for something to happen. "_Uno mas,_" he said tonelessly to the barkeep now.

The door jangled, and Sands heard the stool beside him scrape the floor as someone sat down. "Whatever he's having," the newcomer said, evidently indicating Sands' drink. He made no move to acknowledge the man, but inwardly admitted that he respected anyone who'd order 'whatever he's having' at 11:00 in the morning.

"Enjoying your lunch break, Sands?"

_Aw, fuck. Busted,_ Sands thought absently. "Immensely," he replied dryly. "Who's asking?"

"Special Agent Hansen." Sands guessed the man had a hand extended, but he didn't particularly care. He waited, but Hansen didn't say anything else, so Sands took a swallow of tequila and asked, "The fuck you want?"

"Do you recall a conversation we had a few months ago, Agent Sands?" Hansen asked silkily.

"Not really, no."

Hansen made a soft sound of dissent. "In the hospital? Regarding your misadventures in Mexico?"

Sands thought. Now that he thought about it, he did remember something—aside from the agents pestering him with stupid questions, he'd only had two visitors in the hospital room. One of those instances had been profoundly enjoyable, but the other... He remembered someone standing over him, their voice going in and out like a badly tuned radio, saying something like "do you think we'd..." What was it? He frowned slightly, trying to remember—he hadn't really been listening, he'd had other things on his mind at the time. Something about "you'll be of use to us later," and..."you really thought you'd get away with all of it," that was it. That stupid fucking sort of non-question, just like the one—

Hansen kept breathing rather harshly through his nose, sounding offended—apparently, he was used to people remembering it when he had threatened them. "I suppose so," Sands said noncommittally. "Why?"

"Do you happen to recall that I mentioned your being useful in an upcoming project?" Hansen demanded, sounded pissed now. Sands started to half-shrug, and Hansen barreled on, not waiting to hear that he hadn't really been paying attention to that part, either. "Because the plan is currently in motion. Looks like you're finally going to have something to do." His smirk was audible.

"Is that so?" Sands asked archly, exhaling a cloud of smoke rather harshly, fairly sure he was being insulted. "Well, I've been waiting with baited breath, really."

Hansen chose to ignore that. "Recently it's come to my—and some of my colleagues' attention—that McKean knows some information he ought not to know. Therefore, we have decided to have him taken care of," he said brusquely.

Sands let a full five seconds go by before saying blandly, "So you're asking me to whack him?"

Hansen gave an extremely derisive laugh. "Hardly," he said contemptuously, and Sands clenched his jaw. He was definitely being insulted now. "We've found a professional."

Sands raised his eyebrows. "A hitter? Well, that seems a little superfluous, don't you think?"

"Meaning?"

"Maybe you didn't realize, but we've got a couple of buildings just chock-full of trained federal agents. With guns and everything." Besides, Sands' past experience with hitters was...dicey at best.

"Well, now, that wouldn't be a hard case to crack, would it. 'Director of Central Intelligence shot with agency-issue gun on agency property.'" Hansen deadpanned back. "No, we've found a freelancer. Best on four continents, if you believe the rumors."

"Hmm." Sands stubbed out his cigarette on the bar, missing the ashtray by six inches—again—and pretending not to hear the bartender's sigh of annoyance. Taking another one from his pocket, he said, "Well, that's terribly interesting, really. What's it fucking got to do with me?"

Hansen swallowed his drink in one go. "They've recently upped the security on the grounds even more, especially around McKean."

"Yes, I know that. I got the memo." _In case you forgot, I'm an agent too, you fucker._

"Our professional is, of course, going to need access to several agency buildings in order to carry out the hit. We'll be needing you to help with getting past security without raising any alarms in the system. Your pass code will be of great use in the early stages."

Sands said nothing. So now he was just some hit man's bitch. His blood boiled. But his tone was utterly calm when he replied, "Well, that's a real nifty plan, Nancy Drew. But remind me—what's my motivation, again?"

Hansen had clearly been hoping he'd ask just that. "Come now, Agent Sands," he said patronizingly. "You had to have known that we'd have time to go through all your files and belongings when you were lying in that hospital. We know about everything. All the business with Belini and with Barillo..." Sands' hand clenched into a fist on the bar, but Hansen continued as though he hadn't noticed. "Think about, Sands. If you'd really gotten in Barillo's way like you said you had, you'd be dead. What they did to you, well..." He sighed theatrically. "They were sending a message."

"That's very observant, congratulations. It's no wonder you're a 'special' agent."

"Anyway," Hansen continued, again ignoring Sands' interjection. "it's not just Mexico that we know about. Apparently you've made quite a habit of stirring up trouble on assignment. We've talked to plenty of people, and we have all the information we need." He paused for effect. "I'm suggesting strongly that you cooperate with us."

"Blackmail," Sands observed disinterestedly. "How very...Lifetime Original Movie of you."

"Oh, 'blackmail' is such an ugly word," Hansen replied airily. "Think of it as an assignment. You haven't received too many lately, have you?" Sands again said nothing, just expelled a cloud of smoke in Hansen's general direction. "I'll take that to mean you're on board. Good, that will make everything easier on you. You'll be coming with us to pick her up at Dulles this evening."

"Her?" he replied, thrown. "Her who?"

"Our professional, of course," Hansen replied buoyantly, and Sands realized he'd purposefully left this juicy bit of information for last. _A woman. Jesus Christ. Just what I need._ Sands kept his expression neutral. "For the purposes of this assignment, the two of you will be staying at the Staybridge Suites for a few days, until it's done." The Suites, Sands knew, was the closest hotel to the grounds.

_The CIA agent and the female assassin trapped in a hotel room together. I couldn't have written a better plot for a porno myself._ "I'll have to run home and get my pajamas," he commented, dropping his cigarette butt into his glass, hearing it hiss. "Been years since I've had a slumber party."

"Hmm," Hansen chuckled softly. "We had a feeling you might enjoy a woman's company. Is it true you stopped to pick up a hooker on your way home from the hospital?" Sands made a soft noise of assent.

"Well, you know how it is with these broads. Tried a real relationship, but apparently I just couldn't see things her way," he said, his voice soft with danger. "So I had to, you know. Drop her." _Yeah. Drop her right at my feet where she belonged._

Hansen said nothing, but Sands was slightly surprised to hear his breath sharpen briefly. Before he had time to speculate on this, though, Hansen had stood up and said, his tone normal, "Her flight gets in at eight-thirty. Be ready at your apartment at half past seven."

"Swell." Sands heard money drop carelessly onto the bar, and Hansen left. "Dick," he added, not troubling to keep his voice down. He leaned back in his seat, thinking. A woman. A chick assassin. _What a pair we'll make – the two lady-killers._


	3. Chapter 3

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer: **Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

* * *

"LAX, Gate 47." Elektra slid gracefully into the backseat of the cab, and the driver screeched away from the curb before she had closed the door fully. She saw him glance uneasily at her in the rear view mirror, and she couldn't blame him: she looked mildly ominous, dressed all in black in 70-degree California weather, with sunglasses and skintight gloves to match. She had spent the entire morning cleaning every surface of her apartment that she had touched; she wasn't about to slip up now and leave fingerprints all over the cab. She only had one suitcase with her; she never needed much: a few outfits, all equally as black as what she was wearing now (except for one, of course), a couple of wigs and some makeup, some food (to use the term loosely), the cash Hansen had given her the night before, a small bottle of Drano—very handy for pouring down drains after washing blood off oneself—and a small arsenal, mostly blades. She would buy everything else she needed once she got there, as always. She had left her apartment bare, having thrown her toothbrush, towels and sheets in a Dumpster twenty blocks away from her place earlier that morning.

She ran over her list in her mind, the list of points she always reviewed on the way to a new job. There were a handful of questions she normally asked a client upon first meeting; she cursed herself irritably for letting herself be distracted from them the night before because of Hansen's endless chatter. His words came back to her, for the hundredth time that morning—_therefore, you will have an escort—_and her jaw clenched in anger. She couldn't think about it too much, or else she'd be too mad to go through with the job. She placed a hand on her bag, feeling the stacks of crisp bills under the fabric, and tried to remind herself, yet again, of the very large amount of money she would be receiving. And that was what it was all about, wasn't it?

She continued to stare moodily out the window, not even noticing when the cab slowed to a stop. "Yo, lady," the cabbie said, somewhat annoyed, and she was jerked back to the present. She unzipped her bag, careful not to display the contents, and slid two twenty-dollar bills out from under the paper band wrapped around one of the crisp stacks. Without bothering to look at the meter, she dropped them over the front seat and opened the door. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the driver beam, and hastily scoop up the money, presumably not wanting to give her a chance to realize, and called cheerily, "You have a great day, lady!" at her back. She just shook her head, slamming the door. She entered the airport and headed straight for the service hallway on the far end of the lobby area, skipping bag check, as always. Checking a bag full of disguises and weapons tended to raise a few eyebrows, as did going through security with a six-inch knife in an ankle strap. It was easier to just skip the entire thing, and this time it was even easier to do, as she already had her boarding pass. She had mapped out the best route into the main concourse at this particular airport long ago; its size and bustle always made it easier for her to move around unnoticed. She moved across the room, keeping her head down, and slipped through the door, moving swiftly down the hall, past harassed-looking workers. In her plain clothes, she looked like just another long-suffering airport employee. No one gave her a second look. That was always how it was—she was the invisible woman, until she chose to be otherwise.

Within ten minutes she was pushing open the door to the main terminal, strolling out into the crowd as though she was any other passenger. She thought she probably could have strapped her sai into her shoulder holsters and strolled around without a problem. She walked over to a newsstand and bought the thickest magazine there, the spring _Allure._ She sat down in one of the hard plastic seats and flipped idly through it until she heard her plane announced.

She walked calmly up to the desk, and slid her boarding pass across to the placidly smiling agent, who glanced at it and said, "Have a great flight, Miss Munroe." She started to hand the pass back, then looked at it again and said "Jill Munroe? Hey, isn't that from a TV show?"

Elektra's mechanical smile didn't falter as she said, "Might be." She waited until she had boarded the plane and found her seat before furiously scanning the boarding pass, which she hadn't thought to check before. "Very clever," she muttered under her breath. Hansen's idea of a witty joke, obviously—if a client provided transportation, it was, of course, their idea to think of an alias. Perhaps from now on she'd do it herself.

She massaged her bruised knuckles absently, smirking as she remembered the way Hansen had stumbled backwards, arms flailing comically, when she'd decked him the night before. He'd recovered himself quickly, though, gave her an approving smile as though she'd just performed some skilled geisha's trick, and murmured, "Feisty. I like that." She supposed it was bad form to punch a client in the face, but that crack about Matt had been too much. First of all, it was disturbing that he even knew about that part of her life—she preferred clients to know absolutely nothing; he would have had to do a fair amount of research to find out about that. The mere thought of Matt, let alone the mention of him, made her want to smash things, anyway, although she'd sooner swallow one of her sai than admit to anyone how often she thought of him these days. She didn't know why, and didn't particularly want to, but she couldn't seem to let go of him.

She had sources in New York; she knew far more about him than she probably should. She knew about all the women that had followed her—Karen, Heather, Natasha, Glorianna, Mary....now this new one, Milla, or whatever her name was._ Always need to save someone, don't you._ She was still angry with herself about the last time she'd seen him; she'd been on a job, but had dropped everything as soon as she'd gotten the call that Matt wanted to see her. It had been a ridiculous thing to do, trusting a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent like that; it could so easily have been a trap—but she believed he needed her, and off she went. She couldn't help but remember the conversation they'd had, the way he'd opened up to her...and she'd fled, after all that, after all the trouble it took to get there, just because he _did _need her, and she couldn't face it. And after all this time. She looked down and realized she was gripping the armrests unnecessarily hard, her knuckles white.

The plane taxied and soared into the sky, and a few minutes later the in-flight movie began. As always, it was something stupid, this time something about a mobster and lesbian, and Elektra took out her magazine, glad she had thought of it this time. She'd once been on a nine-hour flight with only _Weekend at Bernie's—_the first and second ones—to entertain her, and it had been torturous. She flipped through a dozen pages before she remembered something, and her curiosity got the better of her. She closed the magazine and reached back into her bag, pulling out the manila folder she'd taken from Hansen the night before, Sands' file. She opened it and found herself looking down at his photo again. She looked at it for a long moment—he was sort of good-looking, she supposed, in a sarcastic sort of way. His face held an odd combination of intelligence and shadiness that suggested he was good at what he did, but he certainly wasn't to be trusted to do it the way you wanted him to. She half-smiled to herself; that, she understood.

She flipped past the photo and some preliminary information and found what she was looking for – the records regarding Mexico, his last assignment. "Received information of potential code 481-516," (she certainly knew what that meant—assassination of a political official. She'd seen it often enough, having been the executer of said code many times) "agent sent to investigate and apprehend/annihilate AIP." (All Involved Perpetrators.) "Agency requested that agent remain on location for long-term investigation." Elektra chuckled softly—in other words, the bureau didn't want him around, and sent him as far away as they could without arousing suspicion. They wanted to get rid of him—well, if that psych profile she'd glanced at (page one of six) was at all accurate, she couldn't blame them.

She skimmed over the rest of the page. "Agent failed to contact HQ at 0600...0700...0800...Potential involvement from OHF, reinforcements sent." _Outside Hostile Forces – as if Barillo needs any help,_ Elektra thought ruefully, rubbing her shoulder with her free hand. Judging from the rest of the page, it looked as though Hansen had been telling the truth—bodies of known criminals and henchmen of Barillo's had been found near where Sands was, apparently shot with an agency-issue firearm. "Subjects appear to have been eliminated by agent post-procedure," the paper continued blandly, which Elektra translated to mean he really _had_ gone out shooting blind. That was, she admitted to herself, fairly impressive: revenge at all costs. Respectable.

Down at the bottom of the page was something Hansen had neglected to mention in his retelling of the story, though: another agent had been killed. Under "Casualties – Agency-Related" it read, simply, "Agent Eva Ajedrez." Under "COD"—"single GSW to abdomen." She flipped the page over; there should have been a section with notes under it, but there was nothing. In fact, there was no page at all. Elektra frowned. That was definitely odd. Usually when a government agent was killed, there was a great deal more information surrounding it. Something was off there. She supposed it didn't matter, though—just another agent she didn't have to worry about.

She closed the file, not expecting to find anything regarding her job and his assistance; Hansen certainly wasn't stupid enough to write it down. She was always careful about avoiding a paper trail, and most clients were at least smart enough to understand that. She had a bank account in Switzerland where clients were to send the other half of her fee, but that was unavoidable; she refused to allow anything to be traced back to her in any other way. For the most part she dealt in cash, which she carried around with her, taking great care to never touch it with her bare hands. She was meticulous to the last degree, and it had always served her well.

She spent the rest of the flight staring out the window moodily and stewing over the fact that she'd let herself be seduced into the job. An escort. She'd never heard anything more offensive in her life. This was kid's stuff. She was quite sure she could get into any buildings she needed to, retinal scan or no retinal scan. She'd worked three separate jobs at the goddamn Taj Mahal and hadn't even awakened the guards outside the marks' rooms. "We need the best," he'd simpered at her. Then why was she being treated like a reject from the Montessori Pre-school for Contract Killers? It was just so...so...disrespectful. She very seriously considered just taking the half she had, staying at the airport and avoiding Hansen, and catching another plane out of there and forgetting about the job. That would show him. But she had never bailed out of a job after taking it, not once, and she knew she couldn't now. She had a reputation to protect. The thought made her exceeding bad-tempered. She fumed across 3,000 miles of land and was surprised when the "fasten seatbelt" sign dinged back on and the plane slowly descended into Washington, D.C. She adjusted her watch—it was just about eight in the evening. Time had a funny habit of slipping away from her like that. She realized, though, that Hansen must want to get this done pretty damn fast; he would have had to get on a plane directly after their meeting and take a red-eye to get back to D.C., and then turn around and pick her up. That was good—if he wanted to get it over with, he was more likely to not annoy the hell out of her anymore.

The plane landed, and she gathered up her bag and got off. She strolled into the terminal, looking around for Hansen and his buddies. They weren't hard to find – she spotted them twenty yards away; they looked oddly formal in their dark suits, standing out amongst the T-shirt-clad tourists. As she approached, she realized there was a fourth man with them; a few more steps and she realized it was Sands.

She doubted there could have been more than an inch in difference between their heights. He was dressed in a T-shirt and a dress jacket, completing the bizarre juxtaposition between Hansen and the rest of the room. Dark glasses covered his face, and a ski cap was pulled down over his forehead. He held a tattered shopping bag in one hand. Overall, the effect was odd -- it was as if he was doing a very poor job off going incognito.

Elektra came up to the men and stopped. Hansen smirked at her. "Ms. Munroe?" he greeted her, as if he didn't know her. She gave him a dangerously sarcastic smile in response. She was surprised he didn't have one of those signs. "Ms. Natchios, Agent Sands," he continued, by way of introduction. "Agent Sands, Ms. Natchios."

Neither of them extended a hand or said anything. They simply stood there, sizing each other up, more or less. She could faintly smell smoke on him. Great. His hand drifted lazily to his mouth, and she saw skull rings here and there on his fingers. And—was he laughing? She looked sharply at him—yes, he was definitely biting his lip, shaking his head slightly. Elektra narrowed his eyes at him. If she had hoped he'd be any less of an asshole than Hansen, it looked as though she was quite wrong. "Terribly nice to meet you," she said nastily. "Always nice to have a sidekick."

"Likewise."

_She smells like roses. Jesus. We've hired her to kill a man in cold blood, and she smells like roses._ He couldn't help but laugh. _What a woman._


	4. Chapter 4

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer:** Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

**Notes: **Lyrics from _Assassins _by Stephen Sondheim; also not mine.

* * *

They stood there glaring at each other for a long moment (_well, no, not really,_ she reminded herself, knowing she would probably continue to forget). Hansen looked between them with a darkly amused look for a few moments, and then said, "Well, shall we head off, then?" (Elektra was at least pleased to see that his mouth was distinctly bruised by her sucker punch from the night before.) No one said anything, but he apparently wasn't waiting, and turned on his heel towards the doors. His two lackeys followed suit. Elektra hung back a step, watching. She realized after a moment that Sands held no cane, nor any other means of traveling assistance. She watched, astonished, as he fell into step a half-pace behind Hansen, subtly angling himself in such a manner as to keep up with him, head inclined ever-so-slightly as to better listen to his footsteps. He even curved one hand ever so slightly behind the other man; she could tell Hansen didn't realize in the slightest (nor did he remotely care about the mobility or lack thereof of the man beside him). He had a cautious way of moving that was somehow still efficient. It was bizarre to watch, and overall, was just what she'd been afraid of—it reminded her of Matt, at least enough that she wanted to heave her bag right at the back of his stupid head. She resisted, though, and had to hurry a few steps to catch up to the others and walked out into the dusk.

It was a lot cooler than it had been in Los Angeles; she was fairly sure she preferred the East Coast overall. People didn't smile nearly as much. They walked only a few yards before Elektra realized Hansen was leading them over to a black limo seated at the curb. She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. Why didn't they just use an agency car?

"What's this?" she demanded, coming up to him and nodding at the sleek vehicle. He gave her a would-be courteous half-bow; she wondered if he was attempting to make amends for the night before. She doubted it, though.

"Just thought you would appreciate traveling in style, Miss Natchios. We can afford it, after all," he added, clearly meaning _and we can afford you, too, so you'd better be impressed._ He even opened the door for her, and she rolled her eyes, throwing her bag in ahead of her with perhaps more force than was sensible; the items inside clanked ominously as they hit the carpeted floor of the car. She immediately regretted getting in first, too, as the two hulking, silent agents got in too, squeezing past her and moving to the back of the car. Sands followed, and slid rather delicately in, set his bag on the floor and sat across from Elektra, to her mild chagrin. Hansen ducked, meeting eyes briefly with one of his men, before slamming the door and going around, presumably, to get in the front seat. Elektra closed the partition separating them.

She pulled her magazine out again, not even considering attempting to make conversation with any of the three of them. The car started and pulled off, and they traveled in silence for several minutes, until—

"You must be good at what you do." Elektra looked around and realized Sands was addressing her.

"What?"

"You must be good to merit this kind of fine traveling." He slid a hand languidly across the back of the seat. "We came here in a cab."

She made a very soft noise of amusement, picturing the three of them smushed in the backseat of a taxi, like siblings on a road trip. He heard her, and took this as a green light for further conversation. "Are you?"

"Am I...?"

"Good at what you do." He had a low voice that was almost a lazy murmur, and right now it was laced with amused condescension. "This is quite a job, after all."

"I'm sure I can handle it," she shot back nastily. "He really seemed to like my resumé when he saw it on the internet, so..." She jerked a thumb towards the front seat, then caught herself. _Oh, damn._

He smirked slightly and inclined his head an inch, his meaning clear—_round one goes to you._ She returned to her magazine, flipping the pages loudly to make her point. He couldn't seem to sit still; he had less of that odd rolling grace in his movements when seated; he was filled with nervous habits, drumming his hands absently on his knees and shifting around in his seat. He let a few more moments go by before continuing.

"So, do you have a first name?" She slammed her magazine closed and gave a sharp, irritated sigh, which apparently said it all. He ignored it, though. "Or am I to go on calling you 'Miss Natchios'?"

"Yup, that'll work nicely." She couldn't deny she was slightly offended—he didn't _know_ her name? She was somewhat surprised Hansen hadn't told him, since they were supposed to be working together, but he didn't even know from being in the business? They'd been after her for years, her name was usually worth something in these sorts of circles. She was rather taken aback that hearing just her last name didn't set off all kinds of bells to him, stories of her adventures that a lot of cops and agents knew by heart, let alone her freaking first name. _God. Amateur._

"Not going to tell me?" He passed a hand through his hair, looking amused, as if she were a flirty waitress withholding her phone number. She made no reply; it only encouraged him. "How is this going to work if we can't even get along amicably, hmm?"

"That," she said, not raising her eyes, "is the least of my concerns."

He just laughed softly. "I'm quite disappointed," he told her, in a tone that didn't remotely suggest dismay. "Shall I guess, then?"

"Doubt you could," she muttered disdainfully. She knew she should probably drop the name, or get some kind of professional alias, a _nom de...tuer_, or whatever, but it just seemed so childish, like little kids pretending to be some hero. She used aliases in the short term for individual jobs, but they didn't count, they never stayed the same, and she never pretended they were anything other than fake names. She didn't need to hide behind some goofy pseudonym. Hell, they had her real, full name, and they still couldn't catch her; that was something to be proud of. Besides, she knew too many idiots who did that. What a moron, going by a name that the fucking childhood bullies from the neighborhood—

"It's embarrassing, is that it?" He arched an eyebrow. "Perhaps you're a Gertrude or..." He waved a hand carelessly. "An Alabama, or something equally heinous?"

"Yeah, you got me." She didn't bother to look at him and paused for effect. "It's real embarrassing, Sheldon."

_Score! Round two!_ She thought she saw one of the borgs to her right crack the tiniest grin. Even Sands couldn't resist chuckling at that one. She was good, this one, no doubt about that. Sharp, and combative. This would be delicious. He was going to enjoy this slow hunt.

He shook his hair back carelessly, giving his nose a casual scratch, careful to dislodge his dark glasses just so as to give her a clear glance at the scars beneath them. He waited for the reaction, the sharp, muted intake of breath that he was used to by now, but it didn't come. Instead, he heard a minuscule scoff and was sure it was accompanied by an eyeroll. She flipped a few more pages of her magazine disinterestedly. _Right, Sands. I cut off heads for a living, but that's really freaking me out. Please._ He gave a more pronounced rub to make sure she hadn't missed it, but nothing. _Shame._ It worked so well on everyone else, especially girls. _Though you're not like other girls, are you._ He shook his head slightly, remembering the staff at the hospital hesitantly encouraging (and eventually, almost pleading) with him to "at least _talk_ to" the ocularist they had on staff, the one who made the glass eyes. ("Porous polyethylene," they kept correcting. Whatever. "Glass" sounded more badass.) He'd really only let them keep talking for his own amusement, though, just to see how long they'd keep it up and how awkward they'd get about it before realizing it was a lost cause, because it was; he didn't even consider it for a moment. The idea of putting something..._there_ was laughable. He hadn't even put his own fingers to the spots, touched the soft, gnarled scars, and knew he never would. It was too much. He didn't even like the feeling of water from the shower there. It just felt wrong, having anything _else..._ He shook his head again. _No. Fuck it._ Besides, he was having too much fun this way.

"It's _Miss_ Natchios, though?" he said out loud, inflecting his tone just so to be maximally infuriating. She whacked her magazine down on her lap again, understanding he wasn't going to be ignored easily. "Not _Ms._?"

"Your point?" Oh yes, she was definitely irked. Excellent. "Am I offending your feminist sensibilities?"

"Not at all," he returned. "I would just think a woman in your field would demand more respect."

She snorted. "Don't worry about me getting respect." She patted the bag beside her unconsciously, half-tempted to tell him just _how_ much 'respect,' she was sure it was as much as he made in a year. She couldn't help adding "Respect doesn't come in a name. _Agent."_

"Perhaps not. Still, strange profession for a woman, this."

"Oh, really?" She knew fully well that he was baiting her, but she couldn't help herself. "What would you suggest—stripper, waitress, stewardess...?"

"Flight attendant," he corrected, and he really thought she was going to pop him one there, He wondered if the other two were enjoying this. "And no, you misunderstand me. I think it's excellent that you do what you do. I'm just curious how a girl like you gets into something like this."

"A 'girl' like _what?"_

He leaned back lazily, his jacket falling open so she could read his T-shirt—it had a white stick figure, like on bathroom signs, but without the circle on top, and the words 'Need Head.' _Oh, for Chrissake._ "Clearly well-educated, attractive..."

She chuckled darkly. "How would you know, exactly?"

His smirk didn't flicker. "The way you carry yourself," he said simply. Oh yes, he'd listened to her confident strut as well—expensive shoes, fast-paced, determined. He'd imagined her hips switching, her breasts rising and falling as she walked. Oh, yes. "Besides, ugly girls aren't so bitchy."

Elektra shook her head. "Wow. You are every bit like I thought you'd be."

"What did you think?" He leaned forward, intrigued. He hadn't considered what she knew about him prior to meeting. He assumed Hansen had to give her the basics when giving her the assignment, though. Not that he was particularly easy to sum up. "I take it you read my file."

"I did, yes."

"What's it say?" He grinned in anticipation.

"It says you're a sociopath, in so many words," she replied coolly. Well, it had implied that, anyway. And he was certainly proving himself to be so. He looked increasingly amused, though, apparently taking it as a compliment. "Did you read _my_ file?" she added. The two at the other end of the suits both gave identical smothered snickers, and she realized what she'd said. _Oh, for fuck's _sake_._

"Hmm." He chuckled at that. "Thought about it. I'm waiting for the movie." _Oh! And a point for Agent Psycho._ She massaged her forehead tiredly. The worst part of all of this was that she'd basically asked for it -- she'd known what she was getting herself into last night, and yet all those damn zeroes..._crap._ "Good one," she said dryly.

"I thought so." He laced his fingers behind his head, enjoying himself. "So, go on, tell me. How _did_ you get into something like this?"

"I just did," she said exasperatedly, so sick of this question that she couldn't even think of a good sarcastic answer. "It's what I'm good at." He furrowed his brow doubtfully at her.

"What, one day you accidentally offed somebody and thought you'd make lemonade, make a career out of it?"

_"No."_ God. Why did everyone want to _know_ this? "It's a long story." She knew she was just piquing his interest even more, but she didn't like thinking about how she'd gotten where she was. She was the best there was and damn proud of it, but thinking about the beginning was...well, she didn't like to do it. There was really no way to answer it, anyway. She'd have to start with the day she was born.

He decided to hold off for now, making a mental note to get back to that. "It's admirable."

She narrowed her at eyes at him, sure she was being mocked. "'Admirable'?"

He gave an elegant shrug. "It's a dangerous job, very frowned-upon. If you're good enough at it to not get caught, then you've got the right to it," he said airily. She said nothing, because this was far too close to her own principles for her comfort. He paused, and then began to murmur under his breath, more to himself than to her, in a strange chant that she realized after a horrified second was her version of singing: "If you can keep your goal in sight, you can climb to any height, everybody's got the right to their dreams..."

She gaped at him. "I'm sorry, what?" _He's insane. He's actually certifiable._

He stopped, giving a little shake, as if he'd forgotten she was there and was startled by her question. "Not a Sondheim fan?" he asked lightly, feeling and relishing her bewildered stare. _Good, that will make this even more fun._

"Not really."

"Hmm. Shame." She shook her head slowly. He cleared his throat casually. "Well, like I said, I think it's good that you do this."

"Really." She didn't hear that one as much. "Why's that?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "People think of it as such a male business, don't they," It wasn't a question. "A woman, though..." He spread a hand towards her. "Changes people's perception, keeps things modern." He had an odd habit of speaking in commas. "Puts the 'ass' back in 'assassin,' even."

Hansen's two thugs gave their most pronounced snickers yet, and Sands looked so thoroughly self-satisfied that she knew he'd been sitting on that one for a while. And it wasn't the first or second (or third, or tenth, or millionth) time she'd heard that one. Still, though, she saw where this whole affair was heading, and she thought she'd make an example early on and let everyone know how things were going to be. "_Good_ one," she said again, and Sands gave her a thoroughly smart-ass grin. Moving with well-honed speed, she turned in her seat, dropping her left hip and bringing her right leg up, planting her stilettoed foot right against his throat, forcing his head back against the tinted window, the sharp heel scratching his neck. The look of shock on his face, momentary though it was, was a thing of beauty. The two other men looked startled as well, but did nothing.

"Listen," she said conversationally. "I get it. This is a bit insulting for you, too. You've gone from hotshot big-man agent to basically being my bitch." He shifted around, pushing against her slightly, and she pushed right back, causing him to let out a muted, choked grunt. "Hell, you don't even get to do the hit. That does suck. But let me assure you, I like this even less. I don't really play well with others, you see. But this is quite the lovely business opportunity for me, and I'm not throwing it away, no matter how much of an asshole you are. So, what say we make a deal: you don't piss me off or get in my way, and I might not kill you. Deal?"

He said nothing, just looked contemptuously amused. He had instinctively grabbed at her ankle when she had first pushed against him, and had stopped struggling after a few seconds. "Hmm," he said, and started to ease both hands up her calf, pushing her pant leg up and brushing the inch of skin above the leather of her boot for a brief second before she yanked away, annoyed, leaving a red scratch against his skin with her heel. "Whatever you say, sugar." He slowly brought the fingers that he touched her to his lips, as if tasting her. She opened her magazine again and looked down unseeingly at the pages, hating him, hating herself more for unwittingly giving him that little bonus, for being greedy enough to take this fucking job in the first place. She wished she could have resisted, but knew that it was still in her, the desire, prowling, waiting to explode.

They traveled in silence for a few more minutes, Sands taking the time to fantasize about going up the rest of her leg and Elektra just fuming. She had to smooth her hand over her bag and feel the stacked bills through the fabric several times to remind herself. _Part of the job. It's just a job._ People with normal jobs put up with annoying people all the time, didn't they?

They pulled up to the hotel and she got out before Hansen even had time to come around and open the door. She pulled out the handle of her suitcase again and looked at the place, at least mildly glad to see they'd spared no expense here, either. Again, though, kind of the least they could do. Sands got out, dragging his stupid shopping bag, followed by the other two, and Elektra noticed that one of them caught Hansen's eye and flashed him a quick thumbs-up. Hansen looked pleased. Whatever that was about.

The car pulled away from the curb, and the four of them trooped into the hotel, Sands still doing his deliberate, angular walk, although not being stupid enough to attempt laying a hand on Elektra. They went through the lobby and into the elevator, where Hansen pushed the button for the eighth floor and, when the door had closed, handed Sands and Elektra identical key cards. For a moment she didn't understand, and then—

"Wait, we're staying in the same _room_?" She gave Hansen an astonished look. "Seriously?" Sands raised his eyebrows, entertained, and it dawned on her that the bag he was carrying around was his luggage, in true man-style. _Moron._

"You understand, Miss Natchios," Hansen said pacifyingly. "If we need to contact either of you in a hurry, you'll be in one place. His apartment is some distance from here—" he lifted hand carelessly in Sands' direction without looking at him "—and besides, it's a lot less noticeable than two people having two rooms _near_ each other for the same amount of time, wouldn't you say?"

This was a pretty lame story, in her opinion, but she couldn't think of any other reason he'd have for forcing them together, other than maybe the fact that it was cheaper, or for his own amusement—or Sands'. But no; she looked at him again, and he looked just as surprised at this information as she felt, although significantly more amusedly so. She realized that he didn't know much about this project at all, actually. "You'd better hope there are two beds," she shot darkly at him, and, predictably, he just smirked.

They got off at the eighth floor, and Hansen led the way to room 861. Elektra let them in and stopped abruptly, causing Sands to walk into her and 'accidentally' brush against her ass with one hand. There was already someone in there. A handyman, by the looks of him; he was crouching down behind the TV cabinet, which he had pulled away from the wall, and was apparently fiddling with the wires behind it. He jumped up when they came in, looking rather guilty.

"Sorry, Mr. Hansen, sir," he said, looking at him. "Just, uh, finishing up fixing the cable. Be outta your hair in a second."

"Let's hope so," Hansen snapped at him, moving into the room. Elektra rolled her eyes. He was clearly one of those who didn't like to lay eyes on the help or whatever. And nice of him to address the man in the suit, assuming he was the authority there, not the woman, even though she'd entered the room first. Classic. He crouched back down onto the carpet and picked up the electric screwdriver he'd set down and went back to work, turning the tool on so that it buzzed softly.

Something heavy closed over Sands' head. He couldn't breathe. He felt his shoulders hunching, curving in on himself. He reached out a hand to lean against the wall, something, anything. He misjudged the distance, stumbled hard. Cold, all over. _Oh, god._

Elektra turned to look at him, bewildered. The handyman looked around in confusion at the sound. She had no idea what had inspired this sudden freak-out, but she instinctively seized his arm, felt him shaking under her hand, and on the pretext of guiding him into the next room, dragged him out of the living area and and into the bedroom, hissing in his ear, "_What_ is wrong with you? We're kind of supposed to be keeping a low profile here."

He said nothing, but pulled out her grasp roughly, turning away. He could feel himself sweating. _Fuck. Not now. Get a fucking grip on yourself._

She just rolled her eyes again, though, glancing around, vaguely glad to see that there were at least two beds. Maybe she'd make him sleep on the couch if he annoyed her too much. He sat down slowly on one of the beds, and she dropped her bag on the other one and left him there, going back out into the living room, where the man was sliding the cabinet back into its spot and replacing a rather ugly vase carefully on top of the television. With another muttered "sorry" to Hansen, he left the room, closing the door behind him. She sat down on the couch and looked at him expectantly, knowing what came next. His two other men flanked the door, and Hansen sat down in a chair across from her. "What kind of time frame are you looking for?" she asked right away, wanting to get this part over with.

He shrugged. "As soon as possible, ideally. How much time do you estimate you will need for background?"

"A week," she guessed. "Maybe a bit more or less. I'll know more once I get inside the place."

"Which, of course, is where Sands comes in," he said with a grim smile, looking around and realizing for the first time, apparently, that Sands was no longer in the room, but not appearing to care. "I expect you can pass as some sort of...guide for him, if anyone asks." He gave her a conspiratorial, mocking sort of smirk, but she wasn't much in the mood anymore. She had a funny feeling he was listening from the other room, anyway, which made it oddly less fun.

"Collateral?" she asked. Some clients were picky about the mark being the only fatality, but she had a feeling Hansen wouldn't care about such things. She was right: he shrugged again, a cold smile playing at his lips. "Whatever you feel is necessary," he said. "I would request you keep the mess to a minimum, but I understand that these things are sometimes necessary."

She nodded. That was true. "And any parting gifts?"

His mouth twitched. He knew exactly what she meant. He appeared to think it over for a moment, and then said "There's a certain class ring from Duquesne that he always wears on his right hand." She nodded again to show she understood.

"That it?" This was the risky part. Sometimes clients had further specifics in mind: about the method, the staging, the amount of suffering. Sometimes they really wanted it to last, to live vicariously through what she did. She'd gone along with such requests before, but she was rather hoping it wouldn't be that way this time. She wanted the beast to stay asleep. She'd made it this far...Hansen, however, just gave a lofty shrug.

"That's it." _Good. _ He stood and turned to leave. Sands reappeared, entering the room and leaning against the wall, apparently having recovered from whatever that was. Hansen didn't acknowledge him. "Perhaps we should meet every morning, Miss Natchios, just to review the day." She hated when they hovered, but he'd been amenable to her other conditions, she saw no reason to fight this one.

"Fine," she said. "I'm usually up around six and I run for an hour or so."

"Shall we say seven-thirty, then?" he asked, and she shrugged and nodded. "Very well. I bid you good evening, then." He gave her a nod and left the room with his two sentries, ignoring Sands completely. The door closed, and they were alone. He stood there, arms folded, waiting for her to say something, still mad at himself. _Of all the times..._

"What now, roomie?" he finally asked, arching an eyebrow mischievously. She sighed, saying nothing, getting up and brushing past him into the bedroom, turning on the light. She lay down on the bed, tired from the day—mentally, anyway. "Dinner?" He turned towards her.

"I suppose so." Eating was one of those things she did more out of logical habit than desire. It made her feel more normal, though, more like other people. She leaned over and retrieved her bag, but he had other ideas.

"There a mini-bar in here?" he asked. She looked at him.

"Those things are a rip. It's, like, five bucks for a candy bar." She'd stayed in hotel on 6 continents, she'd certainly know.

"And whose money is it, again?" He smirked, and she had to admit he had a point. "I take it there is one, then?"

"Yeah." He waited, and looked at him for a long moment before realizing. She sighed again, annoyed. "Other room. To your left."

He clicked his tongue at her. "Thanks, doll." She scowled. He turned the corner and disappeared into the living room; a few seconds later she heard a thud and a curse. She shook her head.

"You might want to consider getting a cane or something. Just a thought," she called dryly. He laughed derisively.

"Good idea. Can't imagine why I didn't think of that." He located the mini-bar and crouched before it, passing a hand over it and realizing to his annoyance that it was locked. "Damn. Got a knife?" he called back to her, and heard her give a sarcastic laugh to match his.

"Yeah, got a few." She opened her bag, pulled out a smallish one and came into the living room, where he was sitting on the floor before the machine. She made a mental note to wipe that as well. "Just saying, might make things a little less...embarrassing."

"Oh, you've got my best interest at heart, haven't you." He held out a hand expectantly, and she dropped the handle of the blade into it after a moment, her curiosity winning out. After a moment, he added "They gave me one, actually. I think it's in the back of my closet. Along with my Playboys." He gave her an exaggerated tragic expression—they weren't much good anymore. She gave a soft laugh.

"They?"

"Hospital," he said vaguely. She leaned against the wall, deciding not to ask any more about that. "Now, let's see." He unfolded the knife, stuck the blade in the crack of the door, set one hand against the keypad and pressed a few buttons in a seemingly random order, easing the knife down the side with his other hand. It beeped angrily, but swung open a moment later.

"How did you do that?" She sounded impressed, almost against her will. He grinned slightly.

"All the hotels in this area have these same machines," he said casually. "I looked up how to hack them a while back." It actually was fairly simple. One just entered the default code and reset the inner mechanism. Simple. She wasn't the first girl he'd impressed with that trick. "And like you said, it's a rip." He reached inside, pulled out a Three Musketeers and held it out to her. "Dinner?"

"Pass," she said disdainfully. Like she was really going to start eating chocolate now. "I brought my own." She went back into the bedroom and, after rummaging around and pulling out one of the small bottles (Skyy vodka, judging from the shape) as well, he followed her.

"You brought your own food? I think you're rather missing the idea of the hotel experience." He beheaded the small bottle with the knife, refolded it and tossed it onto her bed.

"I'm rather particular about my diet." She sat crossed-legged on the bed and he walked restlessly around the room, swigging from the bottle (yes, vodka). She watched, slightly taken aback, as he roamed around, figuring out the room. He found the bathroom at the other end of the room, and she saw him extend a hand against the wall automatically, reaching at about shoulder height, and then quickly pulled back—reaching for the light switch, she realized. _Wow._

He came back out and sat on his bed as well. She ripped something open, shook a bottle of liquid. He made a face. "What _is_ that?" She looked at him, slightly surprised—it didn't smell that strong, did it?

"Whey protein," she said, matter-of-factly. "Mixed with water. And an orange." It looked a little bruised from the trip, but still edible.

He gaped at her. "That's your dinner," he said, his voice heavy with sarcastic disbelief. "Are you kidding?"

"Uh-huh. Get it?" She rolled her eyes for the fortieth time. "No, I'm not kidding. It's good for you."

"Sounds boring," he replied, now unwrapping the Three Musketeers. "And like it probably tastes like shit."

"Yeah, well, it's good for you," she repeated, looking at his own 'dinner' in mild disgust. "Forgive me for not having your high-class culinary preferences." He gave his low, rumbling laugh and lifted the candy, toasting her. "You always eat like that?" He lifted a hand carelessly.

"Whatever's around. Life's short." he said with a shrug. "I have no interest in living forever."

"Clearly." She certainly wasn't one to comment about life or death on any level, so she didn't. She took a long swallow of her drink; she'd been eating like this for a while and she honestly didn't know if it really was that bland and crappy or if her sense of taste was screwed up now, too. It got the job done, though, so what was the difference?

He finished the candy, licking his fingers a bit salaciously, perhaps. He reached into his pocket and took out a small packet. "Mind if I smoke?"

"Care if I die?" she shot back without thinking. She loathed the smell—she'd actually tried a cigarette once, when she was a teenager and curious. It had burned her throat and made her eyes water, but she'd finished it anyway, figuring she might as well do the thing properly. Unfortunately, her sensei at the time was a particularly sharp woman who missed nothing and smelled it on her when they met later that day, and cracked her furiously over the head with a bo staff, ranting about poisons and toxins and keeping her body's temple pure if they were going to bother to do all this work on it as Elektra swayed on the spot, stars exploding in front of her eyes. Since then, she'd rather lost her taste for it.

Sands made a thoughtful face and then shrugged; clearly, he didn't, really. Elektra scowled. "To your health." He took a brown hand-rolled cigarette from it and, in swift, practiced motions, put it in his mouth, took it out, put it back in, and lit it with a small, old-fashioned silver lighter. She found it annoying. She sighed pointedly, scooping up her food and going over to the table on the side of the room to get away from the noxious cloud. The corner of his mouth quirked, and he lay back on the bed, one arm folded behind his head. She studied him as she worked into the orange. It was the oddest thing: it was as if he was learning to deal, accepting his new life, and yet fighting it, rebelling against it at the same time. He had that careful walk, that awareness, and yet he was still turning on lights and—he looked closer as he lifted his hand to take another drag from the cigarette—he was still wearing a watch, for God's sake. Bizarre.

He just lay there contentedly, smoking, listening to eat her the orange, heard her suck on the juice, imagined her lips shiny with it, her tongue moving. _Shit, this might be better._ He could still smell her perfume; mingled with the smell of the fruit and the sound of her mouth, it was almost overwhelmingly boner-inspiring. He figured she'd probably kill him, though.

She stood up, leaving half of the orange on the plastic bag. "I'm going to take a shower. Don't touch my stuff." He snickered. He liked her bossy. "Actually, don't touch anything you don't have to. I don't want to clean everything in the room."

He sat up with a frown. "Clean?" _Good lord, she_ is _the perfect woman. Cleans, kills people...just have to work on that cooking thing..._

She rolled her eyes. "Prints, Sands. Fibers, hairs...and those cigarette butts, too," she added, as he stubbed out the one he'd been holding. "So don't leave them lying around, either. You know, evidence? What kind of spook are you, anyway?" He chuckled. Most people didn't know that was also an old-time word for a government agent, but she'd clearly in the business long enough to know the slang. He liked that.

"Whatever you say, ma'am." He gave her a little mock-salute, and she went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her (and locking it for good measure) and imagining him going around running a hand over every surface, just to spite her. Hell, he'd already felt up all the damn walls already...She scowled. She supposed it wouldn't really hurt _her_ if his prints were found all over the place, but she didn't like to do things half-assed.

She turned the water on, too hot, and jumped in, made it fast. She didn't like the idea of leaving him out there alone too long with all her stuff, not to mention all the money. She stepped out, grabbing a soft white towel from the counter and dried her long hair, glancing in the mirror with approval, as usual. She turned to the side, glancing at her back and arms: the bruises and scrapes from the California job were completely gone now, and she gave a small, satisfied smile. She always healed fast, everything always faded...well, mostly. As always, her eyes dropped to her midsection, to the vivid scar there, the one that hadn't faded at all. Sometimes she thought it looked as bad as the day she got it, angry, red and way too memorable. She brushed her fingers over it and flinched.

She tore her eyes away. _What's the point anymore?_ She wrapped herself in the towel, opening the door. Sands was lying innocently on the bed, having flipped the TV on. It was impossible to tell if he'd been up to anything. She went over to her bag on the floor and ducked down behind the bed, furtively searching for her clothes—technically she knew it didn't really matter, but for some reason she didn't want to be naked in front of him. For some reason, she had a weird feeling that he could sense nudity, probably even before. _He's one of those assholes who just knows what kind of underwear you're wearing,_ she thought darkly, hunting around for a shirt and clutching a pair of black bikini-cuts in her hand, _just by being in the same room as_—

"So, what're you packing?"

"What?" She whipped her head around quickly, ending up with a face full of wet hair. He twitched an eyebrow at her tone, sitting up on the bed.

"What are you packing?" he repeated slowly. "You know, to do McKean with." He brought his hands to his waist and made little gun-shooting motions, like he was in old Western. "I assume you're not going to execute him with your sheer wit."

"Oh. Nothing," she said, flustered. _Damn._ He looked increasingly doubtful. "I mean, I don't use guns."

"What?"

"I hate guns," she said, more evenly. "I _have_ used them, I just don't like to. Not my thing."

He gave a disdainful snort. "What is your thing, then?" He turned off the TV, though, apparently interested.

"Sai," she replied shortly, trying to tug her clothes on as silently as possible. "Other knives as well, but that's my favorite." She glanced up to see his brow furrowing in confusion, and added "Japanese weapon, used to be for farming and stuff, usually for defense. But...I have a different style."

He scratched his head absently, mulling it over. "Those fork things that Ninja Turtle guy had?" he said finally, knowing it would drive her positively up the wall. She made a strangled throat-clearing sound that was probably masking a growl of annoyance, and gave an irritated, clipped "yeah." He smirked, satisfied. Interesting, though, not using guns. It said a lot. "You like it to last, is that it?" he asked.

"No," she said, too quickly, not even noticing the double entendre. "Well, I—I don't really care. That's not my call, most of the time. The client has say in that."

"So that's what you were asking about, then?"

So he _had_ been listening. She was starting to have a weird feeling that he didn't miss much at all. "Basically," she replied, sitting on her bed and working through her wet tangles with her fingers. "Every job is different, every client's got a different reason for calling me, so..." She couldn't think why she was telling him all this, but she couldn't see the harm. "They've all got different preferences."

"Do a lot of them want you to make it hurt?" he asked, leaning forward. He couldn't help but be curious; he'd dealt with hitters before, but never had a chance to ask, really. "I'd assume so."

"Not really," she said with a shrug. "Most of the time it's just business jobs. I get the disgruntled high-power executive-type whose wife cheats on him or something, but if you hate someone enough to want them to suffer, you kill them yourself, you don't call me."

"Hmm." _Good point. With some people, you've got to do it yourself, or it has no meaning. That's the only way it's real._ "And what was that about 'parting gifts'?"

"A lot of people want something off the body. Something important, a keepsake...or a finger," she added dryly, and he made a face halfway between amusement and distaste. "Something as proof of the hit or just...you know." She shrugged, flipping her head over and tying her hair up on her head. "A reminder."

"They want a reminder of the person they had whacked?"

"A reminder of the _fact_ that they had them whacked."

He snorted. "That's stupid. Why would they want to hold onto something that could easily implicate them if it's found?" She had to admit she agreed, which bugged her.

"I don't know. It's a rush, I guess, to have it. Like a trophy. Or they can show it to someone else to make their point that they could be next or whatever."

"You never asked?"

"No. I don't really care. My relationship with the client is usually pretty minimal. They contact me, say who, when and where, they pay, I do it. It's usually a pretty simple transaction. I usually only see them once or twice through the whole thing. This one's..." She sighed, trying to decide what this one was. "This one's different."

"Mmm." _That it is._ He pushed his hair back. "Do you enjoy it?"

_Ugh, the other worst question._ "You enjoy anything you're good at, I guess," she said noncommittally. "It's just like any other job."

"Really." It wasn't quite a question, and didn't require a real answer. He said nothing else. Silence spread through the room like a fog. She got up after a few minutes, turning off the lights and checking the doors and windows. He changed for bed right in front of her, stripping off his ripped jeans. She didn't look over at him, though. After a bit, she climbed into bed—it was a bit earlier than she usually went to sleep, but she had a feeling she'd need her wits about her tomorrow. Although, of course, she didn't exactly sleep like everyone else did. Years of practice allowed her to drop into a very light sleep, just a notch below meditation: deep enough to give her rest, but not so deep that she couldn't awaken fully in a second, ready for action, in case she was jumped in her sleep (which had happened more than once). Also, it prevented her from dreaming, which she knew could only be a good thing—she had taken great care to learn how to lock her memory and keep things out, and she had a nasty hunch that falling into a deep slumber would undo all of that. Her subconscious was not something that needed to be explored, ever. She kept one hand curled around a knife under her pillow; hers was a job that didn't allow for breaks, didn't allow any lapses in vigilance, ever.

She leaned over and turned off the lamp; the only light in the room now issued through the folds of the curtains over the window. Sands set his dark glasses on the bedside table between them and lay back, thinking.

"How do you know if you can trust them?"

She turned over to look at his shadowy form through the darkness. "Who?"

"Your clients." He had to laugh at the word. "How do you know they're really on the level? That they're not setting you up?"

"It doesn't work like that. If they've bothered to pay for my number, they mean it. We don't talk to cops." _Such a strange word, 'we.'_ It made it sound as though the entire crime underworld worked together, a giant race of thieves, swindlers and killers, trading goods and secrets and assassin's cell phone numbers. In her view, nothing could have been further from the truth. _I'm on nobody's team._

He shrugged, unconvinced. "But still, you never know, do you. Hell, this could be a setup." She could hear his smirk. "How do you know that's not what I'm here for, hmm?"

Elektra gave a derisive, biting laugh. "Because they'd never give you a job that important," she responded smoothly. Sands said nothing, but she knew she was right. She saw how he acted, how he talked, like nothing mattered. They might have been working together, but she saw how Hansen treated him, his contempt, his mocking sneer. Sure, Hansen was an asshole, and she could tell he'd never liked Sands, even before, but now he just seemed to see him as a joke, and she knew he wasn't the only one. She had never thought she could have found a person with less in their life than she had. She turned over again, away from him, listening to his unsteady breath.

* * *

"Oh, God."

Elektra was half out of the bed with her knife drawn before realizing there was no one there. She glanced around in confusion -- the clock read 1:58 AM. She sat back on the bed slowly, wondering what had awakened her, before hearing it again: a low, uneven groan from the bed beside her. Her eyes narrowed. It was Sands. Sands, messing with her, trying to keep her awake. Frustration burned in her stomach. _G__oddamn idiot._ He'd acted almost human over the course of the evening, but he'd just been luring her in. She had a job to do the next day, a lot to pay attention to; she needed her sleep, and here he was, screwing with her, probably jerking off. She threw back the blankets angrily and leaned over to snap on the lamp, her jaw clenching, realizing with a flash of anger that it wouldn't even serve to annoy him. "You stupid motherf—"

The word died on her lips as the light came on and filled the room with a dull, yellowish glow. She stared at Sands, utterly taken aback. He was lying on his back, the blankets twisted painfully around him. His eyes were closed (so to speak), giving his face an odd closed-in look; his features were lined with what was unmistakably genuine fear. She could certainly recognize it by now. He twitched, and groaned again, clearly very much asleep and in the throes of a nightmare. "No," he mumbled as she watched. "No, God, please."

_'No, God, please'? What the hell?_ She couldn't believe it. The sarcastic, mocking, wise-cracking Sands she'd met earlier that day seemed to be entirely gone. He shifted fitfully, breathing hard, continuing with "please...don't," moving in an oddly restricted way, as if he was being tied or held down—which, she realized with an uncomfortable stab, he probably had been. For there could be no mistaking what he was dreaming about. He jerked his head to the side, as if trying to avoid something coming at him, to no avail. _Jesus._

"Sands," she said aloud, her voice hoarse. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder: _"Sands."_ He didn't wake up, although he seemed to hear her, somehow, and relax just the tiniest fraction at the sound of her voice. His whole body, tense as a violin string, seemed to sink back into the bed slightly. He continued with his uneven gasps, though, and his voice dropped to almost a whisper: "God, please."

She leaned over and turned the light back off, turning on her side and putting her back to him, pulling the sheets up to her chin, feeling thoroughly disturbed. She felt as though she'd just intruded on something too intimate, too personal, where she didn't belong. Which made no sense, of course, seeing as how she was in the same business, she'd elicited that exact response from people countless times. _But I never_ left _them like that,_ she admitted silently. _That's just wrong._ She lay there, listening to him for another hour, before dropping back off into an uneasy sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer:** Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

**Notes: **Lyrics from _Rent_ by Jonathan Larson; also not mine.

* * *

Elektra opened her eyes, awakening as suddenly and completely as a light turning on. She glanced over at the clock—5:57. Perfect. She had her body trained to the minute.

She got up, glancing over at Sands as she did so. He was still asleep, and quiet now, although he still looked faintly sweaty under the dim shaft of light coming through the curtains over the window, and he was breathing unevenly. She looked away and dressed as silently as possible, not wanting to wake him. She slipped her room key in her sports bra, put her running shoes on at the door. She took the elevator to the first floor, avoided the concierge's eyes and stepped through the sliding doors into the cool, dark April morning. She set off at a steady jog, her breath misting before her. She had run first thing ever morning for ages now; it jump-started her, made her feel awake and ready for whatever the day might include. Something about not having dreams at night helped her feel as though her mind was wiped clean each night, in a way. This morning, though, she still felt uncomfortable and oddly tainted by what she'd seen the night before.

She couldn't imagine _why_, but for some reason she couldn't get it out of her head, the image of Sands lying there, the sheets tight around his thin frame, his face twisted with panic, his voice trembling and agonized. It was just way too much information. Through no fault of her own, she felt as though she'd gotten way too close, received information she didn't want t have, even though she hadn't learned anything specific about him. In the few hours since they'd been thrown together, she'd gotten quite accustomed to the idea that he was an obnoxious, sarcastic, egomaniacal pain in the ass who treated everyone and everything with utter disdain and really wasn't good for much of anything. She knew what had happened to him on a technical level from his file, but now..._it's just really none of my business,_ she decided, running steadily around the east side of the hotel. It was just...just _unprofessional_, she decided, to know that sort of thing about someone with whom she was working.

_And so is what they did to him,_ she admitted after a minute, somewhat grudgingly. It wasn't as if she cared on a _personal_ level, certainly not, but that sort of thing just reflected badly upon the business as a whole. _Because it_ is _a business, really. A little unorthodox, a little messy, but it's a business and there's a right way and a wrong way to do things. There should still be a degree of decorum._ The way she saw it, if you were foolish enough to get in someone like Barillo's way, they had the right to get rid of you, no questions asked. But to _incapacitate_ someone like that, to ruin their life and take their livelihood and leave them with a constant, never-ending reminder of what you'd done...it was just so unsubtle, so thuggish. It was ruining someone just to prove you could. It was the sort of thing small-time crime bosses did, sending their bouncer-sized goons to go break people's legs and carve their initials in their arms with a knife so they never forgot who was in charge, or whatever it was. It was over-the-top; there was no _skill_ involved, no finesse. There was too much ego involved.

And that was part of it : what were they trying to _say_, by holding down a CIA agent and taking his eyes out? Well, the symbolism was clear; he'd seen something he wasn't meant to. It wasn't a particularly subtle punishment, after all. But what? It was strange to imagine him actually being involved enough in anything agency-related to warrant such a punishment. And it seemed very...well, _personal,_ as though Barillo himself had been in the room and done it. _Because otherwise, wouldn't he just have had him whacked by one of his guys? If he heard there was some agent poking around making trouble, wouldn't he just have him eliminated, quick and simple? Why the dramatics?_ Was it possible that Sands had gotten himself in deep enough to actually get close to Barillo, and then have Barillo find out he was an agent...?

_Well, yeah, that's possible, but what's a lot more possible is that he was actually a dirty agent and was working with Barillo, and messed up somewhere in there,_ she admitted dryly, the sun now starting to brighten the path ahead of her with pale gold. She had a very hard time believing he was at all loyal to the agency. Then again, she couldn't really imagine him being loyal to Barillo, either...She thought back to the job she'd worked for the Mexican drug lord all those years back, when he was moving up in ranks and starting to get real power. She hadn't liked him much, he'd made her uneasy with his serpentine looks, lazy, growling voice and volatile temper. Even when he was only middle-rank, he'd been way too greedy, wanted way too much power. And he'd had a weird request too..._what was it?_ Something too specific, anyway; he'd liked the drama of it even back then. He liked to play games, liked to mess with people just to show that he always won. It wasn't too much of a leap to imagine him tying someone down and standing over them with a drill, watching with glee as they twisted and panicked...he definitely liked causing pain.

_Well, you're one to talk,_ a voice in the back of her mind nagged, but she silenced it. _No. No, I'm not like that anymore._

One thing she knew for sure, though she couldn't say how, was that he hadn't moaned and begged like that when they'd actually done it. He hadn't screamed once; _hell, he'd probably laughed at them and told them they were doing it wrong or something._ That, at least, was respectable. However he acted, however much he annoyed her, she couldn't forget they'd drafted him for the agency straight out of college. He'd done something well at some point. Maybe he _had_ been deep in it, on one side of the other, in Mexico, and somehow ended up like he was. She hated to admit it, but it was an intriguing mystery.

* * *

Sands woke up in the hotel room, and, as always, it took him a moment to remember, probably less than a second. He doubted that would ever go away. He turned slightly towards her bed, but heard nothing. "Hey," he said aloud, sitting up, before realizing he still didn't know her name. _Well, not the first time that's happened. Heh._ "Hey, sweetheart," he called, knowing that would get a pissy response from her, even if she'd been planning to stay silent to mess with him. Nothing, though, so she must have gone out. He got up and ducked into the bathroom, showering quickly, unable to rid himself of the feeling he always woke up with these days, a vague sense of memory, of something hanging over him like a virus that wouldn't leave him. He never remembered his dreams, but a bad sensation lingered; he assumed he probably dreamed about Mexico. _And about her._

He got out, and wandered the room a bit, going over to where he'd remembered she'd left her bag. His fingers traced the canvas and reached inside curiously, pushing aside a few articles of clothing before his fingers brushed cold metal. He traced the heavy weapon; she hadn't been lying, she actually was going to kill this man with this elegant instrument. _And I'll_ help _her do it._ He knew he wouldn't be involved in the real thing at all, just the boring background research. She got it all to herself, and he was the help. An usher, a fucking bellboy. He used to get the big jobs. He tightened his grasp on the blade inside her bag as a vague anger flared inside him; he gave a grunt of surprise and pulled his hand away as the razor-sharp edge cut into his fingers. He sucked at it resolutely, going back to the bed and lighting a cigarette. _Well, what did you expect._ This was how things were going to be now. He dropped his hand to the side, feeling the cig burn a small hole in the bedspread. He thought, _good, let it._

Out in the hall, Elektra checked her watch. 7:20. She had purposefully made it extra-long to avoid the awkward waiting time with Sands; hopefully Hansen would be along any minute and then they could get down to business. Despite the uncertain details surrounding this particular job, she was always anxious to get things started once she took a job. She liked feeling efficient.

She unlocked the door and saw Sands in the bedroom pulling a t-shirt over his head -- today's read "Hi. You'll do." She sighed. He turned towards the door at the sound. "Well, good morning, sunshine."

"Mmm." She still didn't look right at him, and she immediately wondered if he remembered what he'd dreamed or not. She wasn't really sure how that stuff worked anymore. "Sleep well?" she shot at him, coolly.

"Fabulously," he replied, his mouth quirking, and she knew he didn't. _Well, maybe that's better._ She went to her side of the room to change, and he ambled over to the coffee pot in the living room. "Breakfast?" he shot at her.

"Pass," she said again, like the night before. She heard his knowing chuckle as she shook down her hair and quickly stripped off her running shoes and reached for her bag. "Brought your own again?" he called.

"Yep," she said, tugging her t-shirt over her head. She didn't sweat much these days, either. "I'm finicky like that."

"What's today's delicacy?" he asked, thudding the coffee pot into place and hitting the switch. "Tofu salad? Some kind of ginseng...medley?"

"Something like that," she replied. "Energy gel, actually."

He came back into the room, bewilderment on his face. "What?"

She reached into her bag, grabbed a packet and tossed it. "Catch." To her vague annoyance, he did. "Breakfast of champions."

"Seriously?" he demanded, weighing the weird, squashy foil in one hand. He tore it open, tasted a bit on one finger and reacted with disgust. "Oh, you've got to be kidding."

"Nope," she said briskly, coming over to him. "No sugar and a ton of protein. It's—"

"Good for you, right," he said along with her, shaking his head and handing it back to her. "You lead an astonishingly dull life, considering."

"Just wait until Jell-o Shot Friday, you won't be saying that." She squeezed out a mouthful of it; he was probably right, it probably _did_ taste wretched, but she couldn't really tell. She went back into the room to finish dressing, opting once again for simple black. She rifled through her bag and selected a dark auburn wig. It didn't really compliment her coloring, but it did the trick; she didn't look like herself. She added a pair of black-framed glasses for good measure, grateful that Sands was unaware of her fashion choices for the day and deciding not the inform him.

He came back in a few minutes later and sat town at the table, holding a steaming mug. "You're sure?" he asked, gesturing with it. "You're really just eating that gel shit?"

"Do you have any idea what _that_ stuff does to your central nervous system?" she shot back, ducking into the bathroom and applying some subtle, boring makeup.

"Makes it lively and perky like a sixteen-year-old's rack?" he suggested casually, taking a long draught from the mug. She stuck her head around the doorway to gape at him in disgust.

"Not what I was going to say, but thanks for that horrifying look into your psyche."

"Anytime." He set the mug down and folded his hands expectantly. "So, what's the game plan for today?"

"Hansen'll be here in a few minutes, and then we leave and go to the office, you get me in to wherever I'm gonna need to be in a few days, I memorize the entrance codes and the building layout, and you don't get in my way or call too much attention to us," she recited promptly, switching instantly into business mode. He made an impressed face.

"You've certainly got this all thought out," he said unnecessarily. She crossed the room back to her bag and slipped a knife inside a holster on her upper leg. "It's what I do," she told him smoothly. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror. She certainly didn't look like the photo in her file, anyway. She glanced critically at him, still lounging in the seat at the table. "That's seriously what you wear to work?"

"Well, it's a pretty light day today, work-wise, see."

"Yeah, but is that what you _always_ wear? You don't find it..." She paused delicately. "Draws unnecessary attention?"

He shrugged carelessly. "What can I say, I'm a slave to fashion." She snorted. "I like this shirt," he added, even though he had no idea which one it was. "It brings out my eyes."

She groaned. There was a knock at the door, and she got up. "I think something else took care of that, no?" She went into the other room and he heard her open the door and address Hansen, presumably, in a low voice. They talked for only a few minutes, not bothering to include him in the slightest. He rubbed a finger against the cut on his hand, feeling it sting.

After a bit, she closed the door and returned to the bedroom. "Ready?" she asked briskly. He inclined his head.

"Born that way." She stashed her bag under the bed, just in case, but went to the door and flipped the sign on the knob to the 'do not disturb' sign. It was a bit of a wrench, giving up the pillow mints and perfectly-turned-down sheets, especially when she stayed in $500-a-night places, but she never allowed maids in the room until after she'd left, and that was only after she'd cleaned it first herself. It was just an unnecessary risk. He followed behind her, and they went downstairs, through the lobby, and into a cab that she flagged down with remarkable prowess. They drove in silence for a few minutes before Elektra abruptly said, "I don't suppose I need to reiterate that you're not to do anything to out us, do I?"

"'Out us'?" he repeated, emphasizing each word in turn. He smirked. "I thought we weren't a team."

"We're not," she said, a bit peevishly. "But you'll be in just as deep shit as I am if you do anything stupid, so...don't." He just continued to look callously amused at her bossing him around, but she figured even he wasn't dumb enough to do anything that would get _him_ thrown in prison, even if he didn't care if she was. She wondered yet again whose side he was actually on.

They arrived at an enormous, clean, white building with a glass domed ceiling arching over the front doorway set on a wide, grassy lot that looked not unlike an elite college campus. She'd been around there once before, but never gotten the guided tour inside. They slid out of the cab, Elektra absently paying the driver. Sands came around the side of the car and stood next to her, sliding a hand under her arm. She started.

"What are you doing?" she asked, too quickly, looking around at him. He gave her a contemptuous look.

"My dear, sorry to tell you, but we don't actually give open tours to the public here. If you want to get into the executive offices, it's going to take more than a security code." He gave an ironic grin. "Hansen's little 'guide' idea actually wasn't a bad one, so..."

He trailed off pointedly, and she scowled, annoyed that he was once again completely right. "Fine, whatever," she said irritably. She allowed them to go a few paces before stopping and saying right in his ear "Touch my ass _once_ and you'll lose a pair of something else, got it?"

"But of course," he said, highly entertained. "How long have you been waiting to say that?"

"Pretty much since the airport," she replied immediately, and he gave a low chuckle. They headed for the front gates, and she admitted privately that it could have been worse. He didn't try anything, and his hand was warmer than she would have thought. She wasn't really used to touching people when she wasn't breaking their necks or taking their kneecaps out or something; it was a bit weird.

Once they were inside, she started to feel energized. She was good at this part, too—planning out her work, stakeouts, collecting details. She liked this part almost as much as the hit itself, because she knew this attention to specifics was what was going to get her in and out with a minimum of trouble and a maximum of efficiency. Besides, it was deliciously exciting to stroll around right under the noses of a few hundred federal agents who probably would have shot her on the spot if they knew who she was. _Well, the ones who aren't hiring me, anyway._

To her slight surprise, Sands seemed to have the building memorized. He headed straight for the bank of elevators and stepped inside one of them. "Always take one of the ones on the right, if you have to take them at all," he said to her as soon as the doors closed. "They're always doing repairs on the left ones, and they get stuck a lot."

She gave him appraising look. "Know all the tricks, do you?"

"Most of them," he said wryly. They went up a few floors, and walked up to a set of doors where security panel was attached to the wall; he went over and scanned his prints, and then entered the code that substituted for the now-impossible retinal scan. She pretended to be looking for something in her bag while subtly looking over Sands' shoulder, memorizing the order of the buttons he was pressing. _Red button, two green, 6, 2, 4, 4, 2, enter..._ She closed her eyes briefly, willing it to imprint itself in her mind. "Got it?" he said, very softly, and she gave a quiet assent. They went through the doors and down and around a few maze-like corridors. After a moment, she noticed people all along the hallways following him with their gaze, some looking pitying, others suspicious. They muttered openly to one another, their words frequently quite audible. It annoyed Elektra, but Sands said nothing at all.

"Talk to me," she muttered after a minute.

"What?"

"Just talk," she said, keeping her expression casual. "It looks weird if we're walking along not saying anything. Just say whatever."

He slowed his pace a bit and gave a half-shrug. "OK, fine." He put on an prim, tour-guide-y voice. "So, have you ever been to our fair state before?"

"What, Virginia? Yeah, a few times." She cleared her throat pointedly. "Here on these very grounds once before, actually."

He raised his eyebrows. "You are definitely going to have to tell me about that one later," he said in an undertone. He raised it to normal volume. "And do you have a lot of business in D.C. as well?"

She'd rather he'd have talked about the weather or something, just in case, but there was something even more delicious about talking about jobs she'd worked in front of people here as well, though. "A fair few," she responded. "D.C. sucks. It's a marvel I ever get any work at all; it's such a hellhole. Isn't the murder rate one of the highest in the country or something?"

He gave an appreciative half-grin. "Not _that_ high," he said fairly. _She's actually complaining about too many people killing each other. This chick is a trip._ "Still, though, no place to build a summer home." She also couldn't help but note that he was still navigating them fairly successfully, even while talking to her. "We're near my office," he added, which explained it, somewhat. "Unless they've turned it into a sauna or something." He smirked, but she saw something like bitterness flicker across his face as he said it. "I haven't even been in there in a few weeks."

"Your inbox must really be piling up," she murmured, thinking that was the end of it, but he suddenly turned down a hall to the left, almost dragging her along with him. "What are you doing?" she demanded, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"Just checking," he said tightly. She could hear conversation coming from a room at the end of the hall; as they got closer, she heard someone saying "...really no point anymore."

"There really isn't." A woman's voice, half-laughing. "What a joke. He doesn't even come in anymore. We should just use the space for a coffee bar."

"But of course no one's bothered to clean this all up," the man said, sounding disdainful. They were reaching the outside of the hall, and Sands stopped abruptly in front of an open door. It was an office, and the two speakers sat within, looking up, stunned, when they caught sight of the two of them standing there. It was a large room with several desks, and the man was sitting in a chair beside a desk that looked as though a trash can had been overturned on top of it. He jumped up awkwardly as soon as he saw Sands standing there, Elektra hovering slightly behind him. "Sands," he said, far too jovially. "How's it going?"

Sands just gave a dangerous, cold smile and put his hand down on the desk at random, taking up the first object he found. Elektra understood at once; the desk, with its utter lack of care for organization or presentation, couldn't have been anyone else's. "Forgot my favorite pen," he said, tucking it into his pocket. "Take care, now." He turned back to Elektra and, without another word, set off back down the hallway with her, lapsing into a moody silence. Elektra watched him out of the corner of her eye; there was a muscle going in his cheek. She didn't understand him at all.

They came upon an official-looking corridor behind another closed set of doors, with a security guard at a desk eyeing them as they approached. Iron letters over the doorway spelled out a random series of numbers, but she could tell that this was where McKean's office would be. They headed over to the electrical panel on the right of the door; the guard watched Sands carefully. "Morning, Agent Sands," he said, a bit uncertainly and a bit too loudly. Sands, still not speaking, gave him a curt nod as he passed a hand over the buttons; it dawned on her a bit belatedly that it was notable that he _had_ access to the executive wing...maybe he had been more important than she thought. It was sort of a depressing thought.

"Friend of yours?" the guard asked a bit more pointedly, and Elektra realized he meant her. She didn't want to meet his eyes, but she gave a sickly smile and gave a pointed nod towards Sands to make her point. He seemed to understand and nodded a bit pityingly. She watched Sands' progress out of the corner of her eye: same code, just different entry buttons. She filed it away in her mind.

"Glad to see you're finally lettin' someone give you a hand, Sands," the guard continued in what he apparently thought was an amicable tone. "Guess there are some perks after all, eh?" He gave a knowing chuckle.

Sands took a hold of Elektra again, sliding his hand down on her hip and pulling her a bit closer. She tensed. _Watch it._ "Oh, just oodles," he replied, a thoroughly dangerous smirk playing around his mouth. They went through the doors, Sands casually throwing up a middle finger over his shoulder. Elektra smothered a laugh at the flustered look on the guard's face, but pushed Sands' hand away as soon as they got out of his line of sight.

"I'm sorry, _what_ did I tell you again?"

"That was not officially your ass," he said, holding up both hands. "Trust me. I'm an expert." She scowled heartily at him.

"Let's just go." They prowled the halls, Elektra glancing into each of the rooms around them and along the walls, to where the security cameras were mounted. Tomorrow she'd have to find her way into the control room and figure out how she was going to hack these things when she did the actual hit. She looked at everything, glancing out the windows to see how high up they were and how she could get on to the roof (it was usually a good entry and exit point), and finally reached the largest office at the end.

"Here you go," Sands murmured in her ear, not breaking stride. She glanced inside as they passed, mentally photographing the room and the window outside. McKean was in there, standing by his desk, talking with a few people in suits. She knew his face from the news and the photo in the file, and she studied him more carefully as she stood there, taking in as much information as she could quickly. He was in his late fifties, strong and still rather powerfully built, although he showed clear signs of having spent more time in the office than anywhere else in recent years. She remembered that he boasted a fairly impressive military record; he would probably have quick reflexes and be prepared for a blitz attack, especially if she was doing it right in his office. She'd have to be especially careful with this one. He glanced up as he spoke, and she quickly looked away, not wanting to look him directly in the face.

As if he knew, Sands nudged her and smirked. "Want to meet him?"

"No," she said firmly. "Against my policy." She started to walk away, not wanting to linger there for more than a few moment. He followed her, somewhat surprised; he would have guessed it would be more fun for her that way.

"Really? I'm sort of a star pupil at the moment; might be entertaining."

"No," she repeated. "It's...it's a long story. Just forget it." She made sure to never encounter a mark until the actual moment of the hit. He gave her an odd, critical look, but then said simply, "Fine, whatever you say."

"Let's go outside," she said, keeping her voice low, hoping to change to subject. "I need to see the structure from out there."

He nodded once, a fleeting image of a hot, female Spider-man scaling the walls entering his mind. "Come on, then." They round the corner again and found a glass door that led into a small atrium, and then outside. They went outside into the sunshine; the temperature had risen a few degrees and it was mildly pleasant outside. "I'm going to have a look at his office from out here," she said pointlessly. He just nodded evenly and released her arm, leaning against the wall and pulling out his packet of cigarettes and his lighter. "Whistle if anyone comes." She left him there and walked around the side of the building, gazing up the wall, scrutinizing the trees. Glancing around quickly, she hoisted herself onto a low branch of one of them, pulling herself up and hiding herself carefully amongst the leaves. She looked carefully—yes, there was a straight shot right through McKean's window. If there were any problems getting inside, she could just use a direct route this way, or get out this way, if she had to. She swung down onto the ground and prowled around for a while longer, inspecting and double-checking. _All about the details._

She came back around the corner after a while, where Sands was still leaning moodily against the wall, smoking. "You're good?" he asked as she came over.

"I thought there was no smoking on government grounds," she said in reply. He tossed the butt carelessly into the grass with a laugh.

"Inside government _buildings,"_ he corrected. "Not that I care."

"Right." He took her arm again and said "Just so you know, this is the new headquarters building, which, in a burst of creativity, they call the NHB. Over there—" he gestured with his other hand "—is the original one which, as you may have guessed, is the OHB. There are a lot of offices over there, so you might want to have a look. I don't know what you've planned, but McKean very well might be—"

"I can only assume you heard them in there," she interrupted, cutting smoothly through his diatribe. He stopped talking and made a soft noise of dissent, still walking with her.

"Yes, I did," he said coolly, after a moment. "I always do."

"And you're seriously putting up with it? I mean, _you?_"

"Well, I considered putting 'kick me' signs on their backs, but it's just not as much fun as it used to be. Can't even appreciate the outcome, anyway," he quipped. She rolled her eyes, but suddenly stopped and looked around in surprise, distracted. Several yards away from them was a small, neatly paved area with benches set on either side, flowers around the edges and an ornate granite wall with writing on it set in the earth.

"What's this?"

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"It's a memorial or something." She stepped away from him, looking closer. "There's flowers and everything." She sounded surprised. It just seemed so out-of-place.

"There's a couple around," he said disinterestedly. "We sort of like to congratulate ourselves a lot here."

"There's a plaque," she continued, walking forward. "'In remembrance of ultimate dedication to mission,'" she read aloud. "'Shown by officers of the Central Intelligence Agency— '"

"—'whose lives have been taken or forever changed by events at home and abroad. Dedicato...par aevum,'" Sands finished from memory, having realized where they were. He dropped onto one of the benches with a snort of laughter. "Two guys were shot outside the gates about fifteen years ago, and they put this here. Their names are just here, right?" He reached back and grazed a plate affixed to the bench.

"Yeah," she said softly, looking at it and marveling inwardly again at his memory. _He probably_ was _a fairly good agent._ She sat down on the other end of the bench. "They were shot here?"

"Yup." He nodded. He tilted his head at her. "Why? Was it you?" She snickered despite herself.

"No, it wasn't _me._"

"Just checking." He shook his head. "I always thought it was weird they put this thing up after some guys got killed on the _property._ I mean, that wasn't so much heroic as it was kind of embarrassing."

"But if they'd been in, say, Mexico, then maybe they'd deserve it more, hmm?" He smirked, glad she'd caught that. He took out another cigarette.

"Maybe. Hell, they should give me a fucking plaque," he said thoughtfully, licking the end of the cigarette and lighting it. "Or name a strip club nearby after me. That'd make more sense."

"Or maybe a Sunglass Hut," she said innocently, and smoke streamed from his nose as he chuckled at that. _That was actually pretty good._

"I'll have to remember that one," he mused. "Maybe I'll carve my name in here or something." He leaned forward on his knees. "Par-fucking-aevum indeed."

"Hmm." She leaned back, gazing around. It was surprisingly tranquil here. "So why are you doing this, Sands?"

"Doing what?"

"_This,_ here." She looked back over at the formal, elegant buildings. She couldn't ever imagine him belonging there. "What are you trying to prove by staying? Why _don't_ you leave?"

"Why should I?" he returned, shaking back his hair and putting one arm one the back of the bench to face her. She gave a little scoff.

"Uh, I can think of a reason. Two, actually." He chuckled again but said nothing. "Seriously, this is just stupid. You heard them in there. I'm sure you hate it, and you haven't even been in the office for a few weeks, and I'm sure they offered you plenty of money—"

"Oh, money?" he shot at her. "You want to talk money? If that's a reason, why don't _you_ quit?"

"What?" She blinked, taken aback. "Me?"

"Yes, you. I'm sure you make a lot more than I do, and I'm sure you've got plenty of pennies stashed away somewhere. Why aren't you sitting on a beach somewhere with a mojito? Possibly topless?" he added as an afterthought.

She barely noticed. From a solely financial perspective, he had a fair point, and it was a little disarming. "I don't know," she said, just to say something. "I'm good at it."

"So are plenty of people," he said carelessly. She scoffed again.

"I'm the best." I didn't even sound like bragging, it just sounded like fact. "I don't know, it's just a shame to think of some crappy, half-assed hitters out there doing what I'd do twice as well with half as much effort for twice the price."

"What, buy cheap and sell dear?" He shook his head. "You're applying Marxist theory to contract killing?"

"It's a _business_," she said firmly. It seemed essential to make this clear, for some reason. "It's just like anything else."

"And you love it," he added. "I can tell. You act like it's just 'business,' but..." He nodded, taking a long drag. "You love it."

"I guess you love anything you're good at," she said dryly, but it was a little disturbing. _I certainly used to love it. Too much._ She spun it back onto him to avoid getting into that. "Is that why you won't leave, then? Because you were good at it?"

He cocked his head at her again. "Is that what dear Hansen told you, then?"

"He said you were all right," she said vaguely. "And I can tell you were...decent. But I can't imagine you caring all that much."

He gave a noncommittal gesture. "Just a job." He was lying, sort of, and she could tell. "Haven't done much in a while now—" _nothing, not a fucking thing_ "—but it's still got its perks. Hell, there's _this_ assignment." He gestured deferentially towards her with a grin.

"'Assignment?'" It seemed an odd word for something he'd agreed to do. Hadn't Hansen said they were all in on it? She had been assuming Sands wanted McKean dead as much as Hansen did.

"Whatever you want to call it," he said. He supposed 'assignment' was a little casual for blackmail, but she didn't need to know that. "But you can see why I'd go for it. How else could I have receive the pleasure of your company without paying a price? One price or another."

_Well, true._ She basically only dealt with people through work, if they were on one side of the transaction or the other. "And..." she prompted, knowing there was more.

"And..." He flicked ash off the end of the cigarette. "And I suppose I don't want to give them the satisfaction." He couldn't think why he was telling her this, but imagined it couldn't hurt, exactly.

"There it is," she said. She paused, deciding if she dared or not. "And by 'them,' might you also mean your friend Barillo?"

To his credit, he reacted only very slightly to the sound of the name. He arched an eyebrow. "I reckon so, yes."

"Well, he's dead, right?" She folded one leg under her. _Not that that really changes things, though._ He nodded.

"As far as I know."

"Did you do it?"

"No. Friend of mine," he replied regretfully. "Would have been terrif, though, eh?"

"Yeah, would've," she said, to his slight surprise. _Guess she would understand how these things work, though, wouldn't she._ Another short silence, and then she said, "You know, I did a job for him once."

"You did?" He looked more thrown this time. "When?"

"Long time ago," she replied. "Before he got a lot of power, I guess. Well, must have been before he had his own guys to do his hits, right?"

"Mmm." He dropped the butt and stepped on it. "Who was the mark?"

"Oh, I dunno. Just a minor guy," she said, shrugging. "But he...he called him something weird. I mean, he used a weird phrase." She pinched the spot between her eyes, trying to think. It had been bugging her all morning. "Not his name, but, like...he referred to him as one of his...his players. Or— no," she corrected herself, and he knew what was coming before she said it. "_Pawns._ That was it. One of his pawns. It was weird."

Sands gave a mirthless chuckle. "Yeah, that sounds right. He...he was very strategic with how he ran things, moving people around and with ranks and such...everyone's life had a different value depending on how loyal they were." He shook his head faintly. "Someone said early on he ran the cartel like a chessboard, and it...sort of stuck."

She gave a mocking laugh. "That's stupid," she said dismissively. "Way to draw attention to himself."

"Yeah, well..." He sat back with a sigh. "He had a flair for the theatrics. As you can see."

"Hmm," she said by way of assent. They sat in silence for another few minutes, Elektra getting up and examining the site more closely. _So bizarre._ It just felt totally incongruous to have flowers and delicate landscaping around all this treachery, secrecy and violence. _She_ had stopped putting on the nice front years ago.

"So, want to see the rest?" he asked after a bit, standing and gesturing again to the original headquarters. She did, so they set off again, heading across the obsessively manicured grass towards the taller building on the side. The rest of the morning and afternoon played out like the beginning: Elektra paying close attention to the paths they followed, the codes he entered and the tips he muttered to her, Sands trying to pretend he didn't hear all the whispering and sighing following them around and trying to resist the urge to swing around and deck someone. Elektra insisted upon going back and reviewing every place she would theoretically need to get into to do the hit, and it was well into the afternoon before she declared she'd seen enough for the day, but that they were walking back to the hotel, because she had to clock it. In case something went wrong with her transportation, she had to know how to get back to the hotel on foot.

"You've officially gone from 'sensibly thorough' to 'irritatingly OCD,'" he groused as they trudged along the sidewalk. "I don't see why you can't just walk in, put two in the back of his head and leave it at that."

"As temptingly sophisticated as that is, I'll stick to my own plan, thanks," she snorted. "They might even be expecting me, after all."

"Expecting you?"

"You can't really think Hansen's got the finesse to keep this totally quiet, can you?" she asked tiredly. "He's bordering on what we might call a 'problem client.' Big plans, big ego, big _wallet_ -- little brain."

Sands snickered appreciatively. "How much are you getting for this, anyway?"

"A lot," she returned obstinately, far from actually giving him a dollar amount. "Too much, probably."

"Well, how much is your average rate?"

She looked sideways at him. "I'm surprised you're not more familiar with this."

"You're all different," he said smoothly. "Besides, my last experience with a hitter was...colorful." She raised an eyebrow, interested, but he didn't elaborate. "So, how much, then?"

"It varies a lot," she shrugged. "Who the mark is, how last-minute it is, how far I've got to travel, how much security and how much collateral..."

"Collateral?" He frowned. "That's a rather large category."

"No, it's in industry term," she said, shaking her head, forgetting that everyone didn't know that. "It's like, how many others are going to be on the bill at the end of the night. Bodyguards, stuff like that. Aside from the designated mark."

He gave her that critical look again. "People, you mean."

"Yeah," she said, slightly bewildered by his tone. "That's what I said." _Well, well,_ he thought. _Good to know there's someone else out there with as fucked-up an idea of life and death as I've got, even if she doesn't realize it._

They made it back to the hotel in good time; the hotel was reasonably close to headquarters. She hated to admit it, but he had done a fairly decent job on the details. Things were starting to look up on this job, a little. She had a nice, comfortable feeling of control here, and perhaps things were going to go smoothly after all. It was, she thought as she unlocked the door and let them in, a bit disarming to have him being reasonably cooperative. She'd have to be on her guard.

Sands went through to the bedroom and flopped onto his unmade bed, finding the remote on the nightstand. "How d'you get porn on this thing?" he demanded, hitting a few buttons at random. Elektra rolled her eyes, sitting down on her own bed.

"Oh, that's subtle." She pulled off her wig and glasses, ruffling her dark hair with both hands. "What would be the point, anyway? Considering."

He gave an evil grin and brought a finger to his temple. "It's all up here, my dear."

"Then you don't need the TV in the first place," she reasoned. "If it's all in your head." She reached for her bag and pulled out her track pants.

"Well, you don't _need_ to wear expensive black underwear, but you do it anyway because it's rather fun, don't you?" he shot back devilishly. She narrowed her eyes at him. So he _did_ know. Little bastard. "Fuck off," she snapped.

"Oh, crabby. 'Why do we love when she's mean? And she can be so obscene...'"

_"What?" _She changed clothes quickly and dropped to the floor, launching into her daily fitness regime. She considered the day wasted if she didn't get in a few hundred sit-ups. "Never mind," Sands muttered, shaking his head. She really was tragically uncultured.

Silence fell for a while as he idly flipped the channels and listened to her even breathing as she pushed herself through an absurd number of exercises. Judging by the arm and the waist he'd felt earlier in the day, she was in top physical condition already, but he supposed she was just vain, not content with being a world-class assassin and needing to look like a supermodel at the same time. Pointless. But oddly appealing. After a while, he shut off the TV and broke the silence by announcing "I don't know about you, Jane Fonda, but I'm starving."

She released her leg, which she had been hoisting over her head and looked at her watch, realizing her hands were shaking from lack of food. It was later than she thought. "Oh," she said, taken aback. "We forgot about lunch, didn't we." It was one of those normal-people things that she had to remind herself to do.

He gave an annoyed sound of assent that might have meant '_you_ did,' but he just said "Dinner, then?"

"I guess." She looked in her bag; she had a few days' more food. "Going to hit the mini-bar again?"

He shook his head dismissively. "Let's go out."

"Out where?"

"Anywhere. Red Lobster. Olive Garden. Taco stand." He sat up restlessly. "Come on, I'm bored."

"No," she said, mildly exasperated. "We can't be seen hanging around everywhere together."

"Everyone in headquarters saw us!"

"That's different, that looks like official business. Besides, I was disguised."

He perked up, amused. "You were? No one tells me anything."

"Yes," she said shortly, not wanting to explain further. "We start turning up all over town on security cameras and they're gonna put it together after I do the hit. We have to lay low."

He heaved a sigh and lay back on the bed. "Oh, fine. Let's order in, then. If it makes you feel better, you can shank the delivery guy when he comes, OK?"

"If you want. I've got my own dinner."

"Woman, you've got to live sometime." He hunted in his pockets and found a cell phone. "Come on, we'll do Chinese. You won't—"

"Don't call from there, for God's sake," she interrupted. "They can trace it."

"You think Noodle Kingdom's got a trap on my line?"

She gave an annoyed sigh to rival his. "If Hansen sells you out or they find out or they just suspect you, they're gonna run your LUDS and see that you called from here because the cell towers will pick it up, and they'll know you were here with _me_ because, as you said, everyone at headquarters saw us together, as did the concierge downstairs, and even if he _doesn't_ sell you out, you can certainly bet Hansen's not going to back you up, so there's no point in giving them an extra chance to screw you," she rattled off without drawing breath. Sands gaped at her.

"You really, really need to stop watching 'Law & Order,'" he told her dryly, but he closed his cell phone. "But if I call from the landline...it could be anyone staying here?" he said, as if testing her.

"It's circumstantial at best, because Hansen wasn't dumb enough to get the room under our real names. I'm assuming," she added darkly. "So, go for it."

"Oh, thank you," he said with ironic courtesy. He reached took a hold of the phone on the table, and then thought of something and laughed. He took his cell phone back out and held it out to her. "Read me the number, will you? Please," he added with a roguish smile in response to her peevish silence.

"You don't have that memorized, too?" she asked, taking it.

"Lot of numbers in there," he said smugly, and scanning through the list, she realized he was quite right. "Well, Well," she said, scrolling down. "Amber, Ashley, Bethany, Carly, Eva, Francesca...got any chicks in here who _aren't_ strippers?"

"I hope not," he said, looking horrified at the very thought. "Noodle Kingdom. It's under 'N.'"

"Yeah, thanks." She found the number and read it out, and he dialed, lighting another cigarette as he did so. "Yeah, for delivery." He ordered a four or five random dishes by number, not caring much what was in them.

"You smoke too much," Elektra observed as he hung the phone back up.

"Probably." He blew a few fancy smoke rings towards her, and she fanned them away in annoyance.

"It'd just be a little ironic if you die of lung cancer in a few years, wouldn't you say?"

"Like I said—" now he expelled smoke from his nose like a dragon "—who wants to live forever? After all, I've looked death right in the eye—so to speak." He gave her a cheeky look and lowered his glasses down his nose an inch. "Not so bad, right? You'd know, that's sort of your area of expertise."

"The death part, yeah," she said dryly. "After that, though, I've no idea." _Which, considering, is really saying something._


	6. Chapter 6

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer:** Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

**Notes: **Dialogue borrowed from Elektra: Volume #2 #11-12 by Greg Rucka. Lyrics from _Into the Woods_ by Stephen Sondheim; also not mine.

* * *

A few moments silence passed between them, in which she gave a faint sigh and looked across the room and out of the window. Sands arched an eyebrow.

"You're bored too, aren't you."

"Nope. I am perfectly entertained," she returned evenly, and he chuckled softly. He cracked the knuckles of his free hand against his knee.

"So what's this part for you, normally?"

"What part?"

"This part before the hit." He couldn't imagine what she _did_ all day—she traveled all over the world and had more money than God, and yet she was so restrained about it... "You obviously do a lot of background work beforehand, but that's not twenty-four hours a day. You can't tell me you just spend all your time 'laying low' and doing yoga or whatever."

"I don't usually have _you_ to worry about, do I," she shot at him, but considered. "I don't know, it depends on the job. Where I am, what the client asks for. Just...circumstances. Sometimes there's more work to do."

"More work than busting into a top-secret U.S. government building?" he asked, and for the first time, she heard something like indignation in his tone when discussing his workplace—or maybe he was just making fun of her. It was strange, though, to hear him caring. "Yeah, a lot more," she replied, a little nettled. "It's high-security, yeah, but this one's going to be nice and quiet in an office. Getting in there will be complicated, but the hit itself will be a cakewalk."

He gave another wry chuckle. "Never heard it described that way, but hey, sure." He dropped ashes onto the rug. "So other...clients want something a bit more flashy?" He was still thinking about their conversation from the night before, about trophies and extras and all of that.

"Sometimes," she said vaguely. "I mean, like I said, if they care enough to make it that big, then they usually just do it themselves, but occasionally you get someone who wants it known that it was a hit, in order to..." She shrugged. "You know, show everyone what they've got the power to do."

"It's not about power. It's about having enough money to hire you, isn't that all?" he asked shrewdly, and it was a fair point.

"Well, yeah," she conceded. "But then again, it's not like I've got an ad in the paper." As if on cue, her cell phone, which was sitting on the table near her, began to vibrate, buzzing loudly against the wooden surface. Sands jumped, but she leaned over smoothly and opened it in one movement. "Yeah?" She listened for about two seconds, and then snapped it closed and replaced it on the table without another word. He gave her an inquisitive look. "Wrong number?"

"In a manner of speaking." She explained briefly about her client-caller policy, the way they had to immediately respond with a code phrase to let her know this was a call about a job. Anything else equaled an instant end to the conversation. "Didn't hear what I wanted to just now, so..."

"It takes longer than that to track a call," he pointed out. "At the very least, about thirty seconds."

"I know, but it shows that I, you know, mean business if I hang up right away." _You've got to play by my rules before I even think about hearing about yours._ Just another way of keeping things orderly.

He gave another wry chuckle. "You really run a tight little ship there, don't you." She didn't answer, but he didn't need her to. "Prepaid cell, I assume?"

"Mm-hmm." She played with it on the table, making it spin around. "Switch it up every so often, tell my new number to someone who'll get it out there to the right people. Well, sell it, anyway."

"There's a right kind of person to hire you?"

"There's a wrong kind." This wasn't really an answer, but he didn't push it. "Wouldn't it be better to use e-mail? More organized, and then you've got proof if they try and weasel out of paying, or something." He relished telling her how to do her job, knowing she'd hate it.

"Anyone who'd even think about weaseling out falls under the category of 'the wrong kind,' and I can see that a mile off," she fired back, sounding just as irked as he'd predicted. "Besides, they have to pay just for the number, just so I know they mean business in the first place. And I don't want _proof._ You never write anything down with stuff like this." He had to admit that was true. There was a pause before she continued, somewhat more calmly, "I did used to use e-mail, actually, for a while, but I...stopped. My laptop broke, and I couldn't very well take it to Circuit City and have them looking through my files, could I?" She decided to leave out that it had broken after coming into very rapid contact with a wall in a hotel room in Rio; he didn't need to know that. Besides, those had been the bad days, the days when she was out of work and ready to lose it...but that had been a long time ago. Things were different now.

"I suppose not," he admitted, thinking over her words. She'd used e-mail 'for a while'...she spoke of time in such broad, vague terms, as if she'd been doing what she did for centuries and just adapted to modernity as it came long. He couldn't at all get a handle on how long she'd been working. "You said laptop, not a PDA or BlackBerry or anything."

"So?"

"It's just strange that a modern woman with such immeasurable wealth at her fingertips wouldn't go for the most advanced bit of technology, that's all," he replied. _Then again, when was 'a while'...?_ "How old are you, anyway?"

She didn't reply, but it wasn't out of indignation at the impertinence of the question. It was another question she hated, but this one because of an even stranger reason: she didn't really know. She could have subtracted the year she was born from the current date and come up with a number, surely, but that didn't seem right, somehow. What did she do with _that_ time, those months when she was neither here nor there, neither something nor apparently nothing, since she was, of course, here _now_...? She couldn't just discount them and not factor them in...but to start over counting seemed illogical. To just add them in and count as normal wasn't right either, though, because they certainly weren't normal passing months. That was another thing—what had they done to her, anyway? Did they count as longer than they had really been because of their effect? She remembered none of it, not a minute...although there were times, especially back when she had still allowed herself to sleep deeply enough to dream, when broken images and sensations surfaced in her mind, and she didn't know if they were memories of then or just a look into the subconscious of a killer. Besides, what did it matter? For someone like her, an age seemed the most arbitrary of labels.

"Old enough to know better," she replied, after an inordinately long pause. He didn't seem to like that. "You're just full of questions today," she added, hoping to distract him from coming up with another; he appeared to have a knack for hitting on those very issues she so disliked thinking about.

"It's interesting," he said reasonably. "If it bothers you, however, I'll stop." He couldn't resist adding "I think I've got you mostly figured out, anyway."

"Excuse me?" The prickly note was back in her tone. "Have you really?"

"Well, perhaps you've forgotten, but I do work for the Central _Intelligence_ Agency," he said, maddeningly condescending. "A few of us are sort of clever like that.

She snorted as thought she seriously doubted that. "And just what have you figured out, there, Einstein?" She hated to give him the satisfaction, but he'd proven that day that he might have actually had some vague prowess at his job, and she couldn't help but need to know if he'd actually managed to profile her in any kind of accurate way.

He considered her for a moment, the corner of his mouth quirking. "All right," he said, finally. He got up from the bed and joined her at the table. "I'll tell you what I think I've established, you tell me if I get something wrong." She didn't respond, which he took to indicate assent. "Then when I'm done, you can do me."

"I can _do you_?"

He let that one go and clarified "There's nothing on TV and you've made it clear we're not going anywhere; we've got to entertain ourselves somehow. Don't sell yourself short, your whole job has to do with dealing with human behavior and predicting it, isn't it? I'm sure you've figured me out a bit. Of course, you've got the advantage of having read my file..."

His startling spot-on description of her job distracted her for a second, but she snapped back to long enough to reply "Yeah, and you've had years of intense government training. I think that evens us out a little." He gave something almost like a grin at that and said "You make a good point. Shall I?"

"Go." She leaned back on two legs of her chair.

He gave an appreciative nod at her, stubbed out his cigarette on the bedside table and then said, with his strange brand of bored confidence, "'Natchios' is of course Greek, but you have no traceable foreign accent, so I can only assume you grew up primarily in America. Your vocabulary suggests both a high level of education and also a mastery of many other languages—of course, that's simply logic, as your job would require such skills. I assume Japanese, for one, is one of the languages you speak, judging from your comment about your weapon of choice last night. Your perfume is expensive—roses, I think— which is no surprise given your income, but it's also subtle, meaning you're familiar with nice things and probably grew up wealthy. Only child, for sure. You're a city girl, judging by your _astonished_ reaction to the garden on the grounds—"

"I wasn't astonished," she cut in, having remained silent all this time in vague shock -- he was really rather spot-on, and she grabbed at the closest thing to an inaccuracy that she could. "I was just...remarking."

"'There's _flowers_ and everything,'" he mimicked, doing a lame, high-pitched imitation of her that made her want to both laugh and hit him. She did neither. "City girl if I ever heard one. Despite your travels, you've still got that urban air about you. You probably went to college in New York."

"How'd you get that?" She hated how flummoxed she sounded, but that was just alarming.

"Well, like I said, you've clearly had some good education—although I didn't know for sure there until you just told me," he added devilishly, and she cursed herself inwardly. "I'm assuming it was America because of the way you speak. If so, it was either New England, New York or California. I can't picture you in the Sunshine State at _all_, and good girls from the New England Ivy Leagues don't usually get into contract killing. They can, but New York fits better." He spread his hands conclusively.

"So?"

"What?"

"Well, I've impressed you, haven't I? I got all that right, you can throw me _something._ What school?"

There was another pause where she presumably wrestled with whether or not she wanted to concede any bit of information. "Columbia," she admitted.

"Ah." He nodded, pleased with himself. _Well, haven't lost that, at least._ "Double major, doubtless."

"Mm-hmm."

"Classic over-achiever. When did you graduate?" he shot at her. She smirked, seeing clearly through his attempt to get her age out of her.

"I didn't. What subjects?" she challenged, getting into it despite herself.

"Women's Studies," he said immediately, half as a joke, just trying to keep up their pace. He was rather surprised when she didn't correct him, and grabbed at the advantage by barreling on with "Why'd you leave?"

There was only a second's delay before she replied "Lost my motivation. What was the second subject?" She hadn't missed that he'd known that she'd left, not flunked out or been kicked out.

"Law, just for irony's sake," he guessed. She snorted in disbelief.

"_Law?_ No. Definitely not." He snapped his fingers in annoyance at breaking his streak. She tried very hard not to think about what had caused him to guess law, and instead just opted to relish in his first misfire. "Sorry. Thanks for playing," she added, just to get him.

"Fine, fine." He gestured towards her. "Your turn."

She thought for a moment. "Already know you were born in Kentucky," she said, remembering that from his file. "No accent, though—thankfully." He smirked. "Went to Princeton, majored in...philosophy, because then you got to argue with everyone and be right all the time." He nodded once. "It was never your plan to work here, but they recruited you and you went with it because they'd put up with your bullshit and you'd get to travel and play with guns and break rules. Your file said you're rather a good aim and good at infiltrating criminal groups, so I'm assuming you speak several other relevant languages—Italian, Russian, that sort of thing."

"And Mandarin Chinese, French and Spanish," he added complacently. She snorted.

"_Pero hablando español no te ayudado en México, esé,"_ she said with a nasty chuckle. "Wait—no." She leaned her forehead against her hand. "I mean..._ayuda—_"

He laughed outright. "Your Spanish is terrible."

"Shut up, I'm out of practice," she said. She hadn't needed Spanish for a job in over a year, but she hated being rusty at anything. "Anyway, Princeton, probably on full scholarship, because I can't see you caring enough to pay your own money and because you probably scored very highly on the tests that you actually deigned to take." She'd picked up very early on that he was exceedingly smart, possibly brilliant; Hansen's words from the other day returned to her: _'He was on the verge of being thrown out. Brilliant student, but slight problem with authority.'_ "And you spent the next four years making them regret ever accepting you because you acted like a total fucking psycho the whole time." He held up a hand and rocked it in the universal 'kind of' gesture, and Elektra folded her arms. "'College roommate alleges Sands set his bed on fire,'" she recited pointedly, still mentally reading his file in her head.

"Ah, yeah," he said, with a grin and a fond nod. "That was good."

"I'm sure," she said dryly. "And you undoubtedly did the exact same thing to any agent here who attempted to be your partner." In response, he held up his hand again, his palm towards her, fingers spread. "What?"

"Five," he said. "Five tried, five bailed."

"Impressive," she said sarcastically. He looked pleased with himself. She rolled her eyes, and added "Definitely an only child as well, and you don't come from money. In fact, you were probably the first in a while to go to college at all, but your parents didn't care as long as they didn't have to pay." His classy T-shirts, messy desk and sweet tooth were a dead giveaway, and his overall nature didn't suggest much of a home life.

"Mmm..." He frowned slightly, not even noticing the insult in her words—she was right, after all. "Close. Not parents, just Mom."

"Ah, father issues, even better." She knew she was pushing it, being in no personal position at all to talk about parents issues, but she knew she was onto something with him and couldn't let it go. "Not around much?"

"Not around ever," he corrected. "Never got around to meeting my pop." She gave a soft 'ahh' of understanding; that definitely fit. "In fact, even my mother only met him the one time."

"Oh, that's romantic," she said with a slight laugh. He nodded casually.

"Well, the thing about it is, when he was holding a knife to her throat in that alley, she forgot to get his phone number, if you can believe that." He shook his head. "Kids these days, I'll tell you. Forget their head if it wasn't screwed on."

_Jesus._ She could think of absolutely nothing to say to that except "Oh." He could tell he had shocked her, and was glad of it, glad something could. And he'd surprised himself a little, too; he'd never discussed that with anyone before. "Go on, then."

"Uh—right," she said. She appeared to have lost her thread. _Well, it did explain a lot._ She regained her hold on the moment. "You're not married and you never have been, because you don't believe in it and you work for the government, so you know what a crock it really is." He smirked appreciatively. "The other night you broke into that mini-bar without any trouble, mentioning 'all the hotels in this area,' meaning you've been to most of them, probably with women. Probably with women that you paid." Then, on impulse, "And you may not even have confined yourself to women, since you don't gave a shit what anyone thinks." He just chuckled, not confirming or denying this. She rather thought most men would have jumped to clarify this point, and most women would have been disarmed by his lack of explanation, but somehow, neither of them seemed to care. "You haven't been in a relationship for a while, because if you had, you would have taken them home so your girlfriend would know exactly what you were doing and where she stood."

His eyebrows jumped up at that, as if she'd said something he hadn't expected, and he started to reply, but at that moment there was a knock on the door. Elektra got immediately to her feet, reaching automatically for her black bag, but Sands stood too, holding out a pacifying hand and saying "It's the food." She sat back down, slightly embarrassed. He went to the door and she followed, standing between the two rooms so that the door would obscure her from sight, There was no need for anyone else to know they were staying in the room together; this wasn't a time to get careless with delivery boys. He opened the door and received several shopping bags into his hands, their handles knotted. He set them on the floor besides him and asked "How much do I owe you?" without pretense.

"Fifty-four sixteen," the young man told him, and he reached for his pocket, pulling out a roll of bills. He pulled out two twenties, a ten and a five, although his bills didn't appear to be organized in any order. He held it out, and the boy hesitated, reaching for it and making a show of slowly counting it out and tucking it inside a pocket, stalling. "Something else?" Sands asked him, but then said "Oh, you want a tip," as if he'd forgotten. The boy looked relieved, and Sands patted his pocket again, as if clarifying that his money hadn't vanished in the last five seconds. "Right. Well, here's a tip: never eat yellow snow. Take care." With that, he closed the door in the man's astonished face.

Elektra couldn't help it -- she let out a sharp laugh at that. He turned towards her, amused surprise on his face.

"She laughs. It's a miracle." He retrieved the bags from the floor and said "Maybe later I'll do a John Cleese silly walk and see if I can't get a spit-take out of you."

"Aren't _all_ of your walks silly walks these days?" she asked wryly, watching him shift the heavy bags unsteadily into one hand and reach for the edge of the door frame in the other.

"Oh, _snap._" He set the food on the table and sat. "Shall we?"

"What 'we'? I told you, I'm not eating that shit," she said, although she resumed her seat across from him. "It's all sodium."

"Oh, come on," he protested, now tearing into the bags with abandon. "I've got enough for an army here. You can't make me eat this all by myself."

"No one made you order all that," she pointed out, but the smell of it was hitting her hard in the face and making her feel dizzy. _Real food_...it had been a very long time.

"A bite. I insist," he pressed, although his tone was light—he didn't think she'd take well to be ordered around just yet. "You won't regret it." She tried to resist, but she caught sight of a plump, greasy eggroll, bursting with flavor and meat and noodles, and her resolve buckled. "Fine," she said grudgingly. "A bit." She tried not to look at his satisfied expression as she reached for a cardboard container and chopsticks. One bite unleashed her full hunger, though, and she ate ravenously, the taste of it amplified after months of flavorless energy gels and endless fruits and vegetables.

"Hungry?" he shot at her, mischievously, having not missed her eagerness. She scowled. "Maybe," she replied, trying to sound dignified with a mouthful of noodles. "I can't remember the last time I had Chinese," she admitted, swallowing. "I worked a job in Beijing last year, and I ate rice and nectarines." The absurdity of this hit her for the first time, as if eating like a normal person unlocked other parts of her humanity that she'd been hiding.

Sands snickered, shaking his head. "I think you're missing the point of all that traveling," he said. "Drink?" He held out another one of the bottles he'd evidently taken from the mini-bar, but she turned him down flat—it was bad enough she was eating all this. Besides, she thought it would be a very bad idea to get even slightly tipsy around him. He didn't press the issue. He picked up something else. "Hot sauce? This place has the best hot sauce in the city. I think they use it to solder car engines back together." He tossed a packet across the table. She knew she would regret it, but just to get him she said "Sure. Don't mind if I do."

"Now, how do I know you're actually going to eat that?" he demanded. Elektra shot him a cheeky look.

"You don't." But then, because she couldn't resist, "I will if you will."

"Fine." He found the tray again and they both took a dumpling and dipped it. "Ready?" he asked.

"Born that way," she said smoothly, and they both ate at the same time. There could be no mistaking the fact that she'd really eaten it, as he heard her drop her chopsticks with a clatter and give a muffled, violent swear, as if she'd brought both hands to her face in shock. He laughed at her, and immediately regretted it as his own sinuses seared with pain. It was totally worth it, though, for her reaction. "Another bite?" he asked her politely.

"Fuck you," she mumbled from behind her hands. She was quite used to all manner of combat injuries, but it had been quite a while since her taste buds had experienced basically anything at all, let alone that. The irony of that was a bit painful. "Whew," he said, and she looked up to see him nudging his dark glasses up with one hand, brushing the side of his finger across, as if he needed to wipe his streaming eyes, evidently for her amusement. She shook her head.

"I confess myself impressed," he told her. "I didn't think you'd really eat that. You've changed, you're daring, you're different in the woods," he added, saying it with an odd cadence that made her sure he was quoting something again.

"What is that?" she demanded, waving her chopsticks at him and continuing to sniffle slightly. "Why do you keep doing that?"

"I'm a fan of the musical theatre," he said matter-of-factly. "Aren't you?"

"Not really," she said pointedly. "But—are you really?" It was too bizarre, but it seemed a very weird thing to pretend.

"Of course," he said. "It requires the highest level of human skill."

She gave a half-snicker, unsure if he was kidding. "What?"

"Think about it," he said reasonably. "If you're in a Broadway show, even if you're just part of the company, you have to sing, dance and act, often all at the same time, at least once a day for months on end."

"I'm sure the money helps," she interjected, but he waved a dismissive hand.

"They hardly make anything. The leads do, but hardly anyone makes it there. It's extreme physical endurance with hardly any payoff. Think about it. There are few things as demanding." She didn't say anything, and he added "Not to condemn _your_ type of profession, of course, because that's quite impressive as well. But you get to make your own schedule and you get paid an awful lot more. It makes your motivation something different."

"But then it's a pointless thing to do," she argued back. It was such an absurdly irrelevant thing to her own life that she couldn't begin to understand what he meant. "If you don't get anything from it, what's the point in putting all that effort into it? It's not impressive, it's insane."

"Actually, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results," he clarified. "These people, these performers, they do the same thing over and over again in order to get better at it. There _are_ different results. I once went to a show of _Grease_ every night for two weeks, same theatre, same actors."

"You did _what_?" she demanded, her voice wavering with astonished laughter. He waved a hand again.

"I was working in New York, had some free time. Anyway, every night was different. They paid attention to what the audience responded to, they noticed what they each did well and didn't do well, and the next night it had changed. And nobody knew that but them."

"And you," she pointed out. He gave a soft chuckle.

"True. But probably no one else. Doing something very difficult that you're good at—_because_ you're good at it—with a personal reward only...yes, that's something to be respected."

She digested this. "That's seriously why you like...Broadway or whatever?" Even the words didn't sound natural in her mouth. "Because it's impressive? Wouldn't most people say the songs or something?" Not that he was 'most people,' of course.

"That's certainly fun, too," he smirked. "You kill someone and then go sing about it? Wouldn't it be nice if everyday society allowed for that?"

"I didn't know there were that many shows about that," she admitted. He looked slightly smug, as if glad to find something he knew so much better than she did.

"There are a few. You'd like them."

"I'm sure." He let a few seconds go by before saying, "So, where were we? You were offering your extensive observations about me."

"Right." She thought. "I was saying that you hadn't had anyone 'special' that you didn't have to pay by the hour in a while." She expected the same wry, affirming look as before, but his expression was more satisfied. "Sorry," he said unconvincingly, shaking his head. "Wrong on that one."

She paused with her chopsticks suspended in midair and looked hard at him. "Really." She absolutely could not picture that. "Who?"

"No one you know," he returned. Perhaps this hadn't been the best subject to broach, but in a strange way, he wanted to; it was too good of a story to keep inside, and it wasn't like it mattered—_she_ didn't care; soon they'd go their separate ways and never see each other again. He could pick which parts to tell and she'd never be the wiser. No harm done. "Met her on a case."

"Here? She's an agent?"

"She wasn't CIA," he said with a shake of his head that was more like a twitch. Elektra's eyebrows went even higher.

"'Wasn't'?"

"She's dead," he said, quite calmly. "For a while now."

She stared. This was weird. _Then why mention it?_ "You seem...just devastated about it."

He gave a small, elegant shrug. "It was her time," he said, maddeningly. She was glad he couldn't see her bewildered expression as she tried to make sense of that. Then something clicked and she said "Wait, how _long_ of a while?"

_So she hadn't missed that._ He took a long draught from the bottle beside him before saying "Five months or so."

"Ah," she said softly. So, right around the same time as the end of his jaunt into Mexico...yes, she remembered reading about the coup going down, she remembered seeing something in the paper about it when she'd been checking for the story about her Denmark job (_page B-5, below the fold, how dare they_). She remembered that a Mexican general had died, and a bunch of his men, but no one else of importance; she hadn't bothered to check about civilian casualties...still, he seemed astonishingly unfazed by it, even for him. "What was her name?" she asked absently, her mind still on the facts of the case.

"What's _your_ name?" he shot back, and she realized with a little start that he still didn't know it. _Well, good._ "Touché," she said fairly. "Well, how long were you...?" It was too bizarre of a thing for him to have had any kind of regular-ish relationship, even if he'd been cheating on her and didn't care that she was dead. It was still, somehow, too close to normalcy.

"Two years or so," he said disinterestedly, hunting around in the bottom of a cardboard container for a peanut with his chopsticks. She looked back at him, shocked.

"Two _years_? You?"

"Does that surprise you?" He knew it did, but it was fun to hear her say it.

"Kind of, yeah," she said pointedly. "I didn't think you...were...whatever," she said, unable to find the words. "Fine, happy? You've surprised me."

"Ecstatic," he replied, and it was almost a relief to hear him being a sarcastic asshole again, after the shock of finding out there were parts of his life that were—that had been—almost normal. It had been something of a comfort to know there was someone out there more fucked-up than she was. "And you?"

"What about me?"

"You haven't left anyone waiting for you at home? No one making dinner and waiting to hear all about whose head you cut off today?"

She had to laugh; the perverted version of domesticity was so oddly appropriate, albeit quite wrong. "Not so much, no," she told him. "Not for...a very long time, anyway."

"But, once upon a time...?" he prompted, and she nodded. "Once, yeah."

"And how long did that last?" he asked, knowing she wouldn't answer if he inquired after the specific date. She, too, paused before saying "A year. In another lifetime," she added vaguely, relishing the fact that he couldn't know how true that was.

"Why'd it end?"

"We grew apart," she said. Her tone remained distant and matter-of-fact, but it was slightly quieter, and he thought she might have been thinking of her former flame for this first time a while. "Wanted different things." _And I_ was _someone different,_ she thought. He just nodded thoughtfully, though, and didn't ask anything else, and she was emboldened by his silence and her surprise that he was willing to tell the truth about anything—not that she cared, of course—"Can I ask you something?"

"You just have."

"Something _else_." He inclined his head to her, which she took to mean 'yes.' "What really happened in Mexico?"

He leaned back in his seat, apparently thinking it over. "Well, I can't be sure," he said slowly, "but I _think_ someone was really annoyed at me. And possibly had a drill."

"You know what I mean," she snapped. "In my experience, when you get caught up with people like that, they either kill you or they don't." She paused, letting that solid fact sink in. "So what'd you do?"

He had to admit, she didn't miss a lot. "I...made some poor business choices," he said finally. She scoffed in annoyance.

"Oh, don't bullshit me, Sands. You fucked up." She pointed at him. "That much is clear, so don't bother pretending. What happened?"

He gave a slight chuckle, amused by her moxie. Still, he wasn't about to start spilling. "Just what I said," he replied calmly. "You already know there was an assassination plot on the president. I went down there to sort it out, and I...trusted people I perhaps shouldn't have. Ended badly."

"But...that's not all you went down there for," she said slowly, and he gave a 'well, sort of' shrug. "How much were you gonna get?"

"For what?" He was almost convincing, but she knew better.

"For whatever it was you were up to. Unless of course you were playing a revival of _Les Miz_, in which case it would be its own reward, right?" He snorted. "So, how much?"

He considered her for a moment. "With a coup like that, there's always money changing hands..." He shrugged, and she waited. "Twenty million."

"Nice," she said approvingly. "Wait—pesos or dollars?"

He shook his head. She really was rather clever. "Pesos," he replied after a moment, and she groaned and went "Oh, _Sands,"_ as if he'd disappointed her terribly. "And you didn't have any backup or anything insane like that. No one to find out what else you were up to."

"Naturally. The coup went down, things went bad, I got out." He lifted a hand. "That's it."

She didn't believe him by a long shot, but knew that if he wasn't saying more now, he probably wouldn't. "Did you really kill them all after they took your eyes out?" Her tone was tinged with amusement as she said it, and he realized that this impressed her. He even heard the table creaked as she leaned forward on it, listening. He gave a complacent little nod.

"Well, I took it rather personally, you see," he pointed out, and heard her soft chuckle. "So, out I went."

"Out where?" she asked, confused.

He paused, thinking. "The center of town." He'd only remembered that part a few weeks ago. It made it even better, somehow. More epic.

"The center—?" She sounded even more thrown now. "Wait, what are you talking about?" She'd been picturing him just vaulting off the table where they'd held him down and grabbing his piece back and taking everybody out...somehow. How had the file put it? _Subjects appear to have been eliminated post-procedure..._

He shrugged again. "After the whole...initial fiasco," (he waved a hand in the direction of his face) "I wore out my welcome, apparently, I was sent on my way. And..." He tried to remember it all. "Then a handful of them came after me."

"That—that doesn't make any sense," she said, shaking her head. "If they wanted to kill you, why didn't they just...kill you in the first place?"

"You know, that's an awful good question," he said, and actually lowered his head for a second, as if looking down contemplatively at his hands. "I...think they just wanted to make a show of it."

"You think?"

"I don't—" He chuckled at himself, and then said, finally, "I don't remember all of it, if you must know."

She scoffed, but for some reason didn't challenge it. "What _do_ you remember?"

"It was hot," he said. "And..." He tried to find the words for it, the memories slowly stirring around inside his mind, like something he'd been bade to memorize back in junior high. His hand drifted unconsciously towards his face.

"That's shock," she said dispassionately, knowing all too well what he meant, knowing how the senses seemed to kick into freakish overdrive when your body was violated like that. The smell of her own blood, the New York City traffic rumbling around her, the shocked whispers of the people she passed...everything after that might have left her, but those moments were as clear in her mind as if they'd happened yesterday. "When you have a traumatic event like that, you go into shock, and your senses act more strongly. Which is a little ironic, considering."

"Ah, thank you."

"Did you..." She hesitated. "Did you think you were dying?" Her curiosity was getting the better of her; his case was different. He'd had reason to be sure he was going to die, to be ready for it, and yet he lived. Could he maybe have learned something that she didn't know? It was one thing to have a near-death experience and come back from it, but _mentally_...?

"Wasn't sure," he said blandly. "Didn't think about it." They both knew he was lying, but she let it go, not really sure if she wanted to hear more about it.

"So how'd you do it?"

"Kill them all? Well, you see, guns have a little trigger, and if you pull it just right—"

"Stop that." He took another drink, evidently amused.

"I had a bit of help."

"A bit?"

"A little." Sands paused as that part of it slowly surfaced and cleared inside his head. _"Was that your right or my right?" "Mi derecha." _He almost smiled. "Pint-sized, in fact."

"I see," she said, even though she didn't. "Good story."

"I wonder who will play me in the Lifetime movie." He leaned back again. "Now, my turn."

"You get a turn?"

"You got to ask me something." She couldn't exactly argue, so he set down the remains of his dinner, linked his fingers behind his head and said, "Why are you so careful?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't do that. Don't pretend. The fingerprints, the cell phone thing, the names...What's that all about?"

"I'm just...I have to be careful. What I do, it's kind of frowned upon. People tend to get mad about it."

"True, but you go beyond common sense. You're specific. I think _you've_ messed up, and learned from it. Am I right?"

_Crap._ "Somewhat," she said uneasily. He gestured at her to go on, and she pulled at a string on her sleeve and said "A while ago, I got...a bit too into it." _Well, that's one way of putting it._ A few broken images flitted through her mind: the back alley of the bar, the dojo..._"Will you fight me?"_

"The money?"

"No, not really." How to explain it? "I just...I'm good at what I do, you know? I started being careless, and...it caught up with me, and someone...made me look at what I was doing." Those were other memories that were perfectly strong and clear, somehow, even though she'd been drugged. _"I want you to understand what you are. And how much you should hate yourself...You'll be free, but you won't be able to do the one thing that gives your life meaning."_ Well, the only thing these days. She took a deep, slow breath, trying not to let herself sink into the memory...Those had been the worst days.

"And?" he asked, his tone suggesting he knew that wasn't 'all' at all.

"And...now I'm just a bit stricter with myself so it doesn't happen again. I don't much like being told what to do," she added, trying to act as though it was almost funny.

"Hmm," he said, bringing his hands back to the table and drumming his fingers thoughtfully. "And yet you didn't quit."

"No," she replied, a little uncertainly. "Why would I?"

"If you got 'too into it,' if wasn't good for you anymore, why didn't you just leave it all behind?"

"_Good_ for me?" She shot the question back at him instead of answering with a harsh, unnatural-sounding laugh. "In what way could what I do be _good_ for me?"

"It's good because you're good at it, as we've established," he said evenly. "I've already said that I'm of the opinion that people should do what they're good at. They owe that."

"To whom?" She wasn't sure why she was working this hard to understand his logic, but she couldn't help herself.

"They just owe it," he replied obstinately. "There's way too many people out there who aren't good at a thing. Those who are...well, wasting it is just a crime."

"And the fact that most people seem to feel that _doing_ what I do is the crime...?" she prompted sarcastically. He made a dismissive noise.

"That's just because people are afraid of death. They think it's the worst thing. It's the only crime for which there's no statute of limitations—but you knew that," he added, smirking, hearing her annoyed grunt. "But it's not the worst thing. There's nothing wrong with what you do. It's perfectly within the laws of nature."

"Oh, really." She had her own ideas on the subject, but she had never heard anyone else speak of it this way and was curious to see how he finished it.

"Of course. It's the oldest profession in the world." He pulled a confused face. "Wait, no, that's something else."

"Ha, ha, ha."

"Well, maybe it's the third oldest or something. Anyway, if you didn't do it—"

"—someone else would," she said along with him, rather taken aback that he'd picked up on her primary personal code. He nodded approvingly.

"And probably not as well," he added with mildly sarcastic deference. "Animals have killed each other to gain power for billions of years. With our society, it's usually about money, but that's just power in another form. Thus, natural. And as I said yesterday, if you're good enough not to get caught, then you deserve to continue."

"Thus, I'm 'careful,'" she jumped in, and he agreed wordlessly.

"Well, color me surprised. We actually agreed on something."

"Next thing you know, we'll be making friendship bracelets."

* * *

Elektra assumed she would never get to sleep at all that night, what with the combination of the Chinese food sitting like a rock in her stomach, the pungent smell of fried noodles engulfing the room, and her uneasy anticipation of Sands' nightmare-groans. She wasn't actually sure if she ever did—it seemed that one minute she was lying on her side in the dark, quiet room, watching the red numbers on the clock change, and the next she was jerking upright, startled by a soft moan of "oh, no" from beside her. She looked over at him; he looked the same as the night before, and she still couldn't bring herself to wake him. She flopped back on the bed with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling, sliding her hands under the sides of the pillow and sandwiching her head in it in a vain attempt to drown him out. This was just ridiculous, he couldn't live like this forever, he talked about natural and proper and acted like—

"Don't, no...Eva..."

Elektra jerked up right, her head snapping around to look over at him. _Fuck the_ what _now?_ She stared, disbelieving, and he twitched, breathing shakily. "No," he muttered. "No, Eva, don't." Elektra's mouth dropped open in silent astonishment. _Well! This is new._

"Eva"...Something stirred in her mind, and she slid quietly out of bed, going over to her black bag on the floor and pulling out his file. She sat at the table and clicked on the light above it. She flicked through the pages, searching, and gave a soft gasp as she saw, at the bottom of the page: 'Agent Eva Ajedrez. C.O.D.—single GSW to abdomen.' She turned the page instinctively, but there was nothing there. "Oh, right," she murmured to herself; that had been suspicious the other day as well. She looked over at him again as he jerked and muttered under the sheet, and another blast of knowledge hit her: _"She's dead...Five months or so."_ That had been her. His lover of two years had died in Mexico on the very same day. Eva, the name in his cell phone. She shook her head. And he was saying her name now, in the throes of his nightmares, his worst memory...he had cared more than she thought he had. His disinterest, his callous tone when discussing her...that had all been an act.

Or had it? Something wasn't right. She wasn't surprised that he hadn't told her the whole story, but why had he lied about her being an agent? It wasn't that he'd lied, but why that? There didn't seem to be a point...And why hadn't Hansen mentioned it when he was briefing her the two days ago? He hated Sands, he considered him with utter contempt and expected Elektra too as well...why hadn't he told her this juicy bit of gossip? And—she flipped the folder open again and looked at the page with Eva's name on it again—who had doctored Sands' file? There definitely should have been more information about her death in the case file. She knew plenty about that; they liked to get as detailed as possible when a government agent was killed. She thought back to the newspaper article she'd seen; there'd been nothing there about an agent's death. That would have been important news, wouldn't it? Maybe not headline news, but certainly first page...she always looked in the political events and world-news sections to check about past jobs and look for new ones...

The more she thought about it, the most uneasy she felt. Someone was definitely going to lengths to cover up her death. _Hell, not just that,_ she realized; hadn't Hansen and Sands both also implied they were covering up things he, Sands, had done there...She hadn't thought anything of it, because she'd assumed Hansen just needed him for this job and hadn't wanted to deal with it. But the stories weren't matching now. Someone was definitely lying to her. It had been Hansen who had given her the file...he could always have changed it. But why bother? He didn't even know she'd read the whole thing; he might have assumed she'd care as little about Sands as he did. And why was Sands lying about Eva being an agent, and pretending she hadn't been murdered alongside him, possibly by the same people who'd taken his eyes? Something definitely was wrong.

She glanced over at him, a chill creeping down her back. The evening's conversation suddenly seemed like an insanely stupid idea. Why had she told him _anything_ about herself? He'd been mildly interesting and almost non-sociopathic for five minutes towards her, and she'd started spilling her guts like a drunken sorority sister? If he _was_ working against her, maybe even with Hansen...

Suspicious and furious with herself, she switched off the light and crawled back into bed, pulling the covers back over her and watching Sands' dark shape tossing and turning on his bed, stuck inside the memories of his own worst day. Now she didn't know what to believe, or what came next.


	7. Chapter 7

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer:** Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

* * *

Elektra was out the door within ten minutes of getting up the next morning. For some reason, the room felt unbearably small, the smell of last night's leftovers practically choking her. She pushed herself even harder than usual, adding another few laps around the hotel, punishing herself for her foolishness. It wasn't just the way she'd eaten that bothered her, although that was part of it; she still felt heavy and unbalanced, having not indulged herself that sumptuously in years. No, it was more the fact that she'd played his game, that she'd given in, been so intrigued by the idea of talking to someone like her that she'd just opened right up, blathering on and telling all sorts of things she'd rather have taken to her grave. Her second one, anyway.

Not that he was _like_ her, she reminded herself firmly. They had both taken lives, yes, and perhaps lived under an unusual set of rules, but that was all. They were not the same and she had been an idiot to listen to him and relax her rules for herself. _That's how it starts,_ she scolded herself furiously. _It starts with just little slips, just little weaknesses here and there and next thing you know, it's all fallen apart and you're one of them, and everything will have been for nothing._ She hated the idea of her voice in his head talking about her life, those things that had happened to her...she hadn't even gone into great detail, but it was enough. It was too much. Her whole life was about moderation, about keeping things low and at bay, and she'd dropped it all because she'd found someone who would listen and not respond with shock. Shock was something she didn't have the right to anymore, and it was strange for her to see that in someone else. _Idiot._

And on top of all that, he'd lied to her. One of them had, anyway, or perhaps both. And worse, she'd cared about it. Hansen, Sands...both of them meaningless idiots who would be out of her lives forever in a few days, and yet here she was, letting herself get all worked up over some convoluted story. The anger that had boiled instinctively in her stomach when she'd glanced through the files and found Eva's name was still there, but now it was more towards herself--she shouldn't have looked, she shouldn't have been curious. Wasn't that another rule, maybe the most important one of all? _Never ask more than you need to know. It doesn't matter and it only leads to trouble._ She repeated it to herself, over and over in her head like a mantra in time with her quiet footfalls on the pavement: _it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter._ Yes, one of them had lied and there was more to the Mexico story than she'd been told. So what? It had no affect on the job. What did it matter who had been sleeping with whom (she was sure Sands wouldn't have had gone so far as to have her number unless he'd gotten something out of it) or who killed whom when? All that mattered was that she finished the job and got paid for it and got out. What was the past, anyway? It was over. ...But what _else_ was he lying about? That was the real question.

She was so lost in her thoughts and renewed promises to herself to keep her head in the game and focus on the sensible things that by the time she glanced at her watch it was ten of eight, time to meet Hansen. She rounded the corner of the hotel, slowed her pace smoothly to a walk and entered the lobby. She got in the elevator and pressed eight, checking her heart rate with two fingers as the doors slid closed. Still under normal. _Good._

The door slid back open at the seventh floor, and she was startled to find herself face-to-face with Hansen himself, flanked as always by his two fellow agents. They looked equally surprised to see her, but Hansen arranged his arrogant features into his usual patronizing smile and said "Good morning, Miss Natchios."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, not troubling to make it sound courteous. The two other agents glanced at Hansen before stepping into the elevator with him. He raised his eyebrows slightly in apparent surprise.

"Coming to see you for our morning meeting," he replied. "Was that not the plan?"

"Yes, but..." She frowned. Didn't he remember which floor was hers? Just how many assassins was he boarding in this place? "Well, you're here now."

"And your plan for the day?"

"I'm going to check the security systems more thoroughly," she said, her eyes on the lighted floor numbers above the doors. "I'll need to get into the main control room to see what needs to be done. Depending on what kind of system it is, that'll determine about how much time I'll need overall." She saw him watching her face carefully out of the corner of her eye. "I should be able to give you a more definitive time frame for the job by tomorrow morning. Or tonight, maybe," she added, thinking that this job couldn't be over fast enough.

"Very good," he said again, as though he was her maitre d'. The doors slid open onto the eighth floor. "I leave you here, then."

"Right." She could feel his eyes on her back as she stepped out and turned the corner towards her room--she still felt that sensation of tenebrous unease around him; a sort of poorly-hidden sense of danger. It was as though he'd stepped too close, somehow crossed the line of professional decorum, but she couldn't pinpoint how. He'd seemed just a little too _un_-bothered by that whole punch-in-the-face thing, for one thing. He was playing things close to the vest and she was somehow aware of the presence of deceit--more than was normal, that is. There was of course the vague threat he'd made to her in their first meeting about having her file and being able to expose her, but somehow that wasn't all; there wasn't enough weight to it to worry her. Corrupt and murderous though he might be, he was still too closely tied into the agency to worry her. He couldn't attempt to turn her in without risking everything he had hired her to get. He had too much to lose. It was the renegades, the ones with no real ties anywhere, that were the dangerous ones. Still, there was something about him and what went between them that she didn't like. Really, the job couldn't be finished too soon.

She pushed open the door to find Sands awake and sitting at the table, calmly sipping from a stained white mug from the bathroom. Her anger from the night before rose again at the sight of him, but she pushed it away. _It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter._ "Hello there," he said, but she made no reply as she stalked past him into the bathroom. He heard the door close and lock, and he smiled slightly into the cup. She was pissed, of course, and he was glad. He knew what it was about, it wasn't difficult—she'd enjoyed being mysterious and keeping him at arm's length, denying him what he asked and treating him like the help. The way they'd talked the night before was way too personal for her, and she regretted giving what she had to him. She thought she was so strong, so impenetrable and stubborn, and in two days he'd broken her down, at least somewhat. They were all the same; everyone had their weak spot where you could push. He always found it.

He heard the water run and then shut off, and in a few minutes she emerged. He could smell her clean, damp skin and imagined smooth, toned flesh, lean muscles underneath. His fingers absentmindedly slid around the sides of the mug he was still holding, imagining gripping her tightly, her hands pulling his hair, the taste of her mouth...how she'd hate it, but love it, as they all did. He smirked to himself again.

She dressed quickly, putting on the same disguise and the day before, still not looking at him. _Doesn't matter. Does not matter._ She started mentally running over the details of her day's plan and the various security systems the building might be employing—it always made her feel calmer to think about the technical, mechanical side of things—but was interrupted by Sands saying aloud, "So, what's today's mission?"

"What do you think?" she snapped, unable to stop herself. He raised an eyebrow at her tone, apparently amused.

"The usual," he replied. "Drinks, dancing, maybe rent some jet skis later." Elektra rolled her eyes.

"I'm doing the security today," she said brusquely. "Same as yesterday: we go in, I do my stuff, you don't get in my way."

"Sounds like a gas." She made no reply and forced herself to look anywhere but at him, maintaining her stony silence all the way out of the hotel and into the cab. He could hear her breathing sharply through her nose, as if her jaws were clenched too tightly to allow breath. He imagined her again, leaning as far away from him as she could in the backseat, against the door, arms crossed across her chest, glaring out the window. He tried not to laugh out loud. _Really, though, not very business-like,_ he reflected. It was certainly good fun to play with her as he had done, drawing her out and making her furious at herself, but it didn't say much about her as a professional. It didn't mean anything too good for the job she was meant to do if she was this easily annoyed and distracted...it seemed bizarre that Hansen would choose her for the job and then hand her over to him, Sands, to torment and do what he liked with her. If he hadn't known that Hansen was a preening idiot with the plotting skills and the foresight of an fence post, he might have thought it was all part of a different plan.

They got out of the cab in front of the primly white building once again, and he slid his hand under her arm, taking care to draw out the action as much as possible. Her arm was tense as a wire, as if she was trying to force out her hatred of him like radiation. He drew her towards him ever so slightly, and she shoved him with the other hand, hard. The cab driver stared.

"Shall we?" he asked innocently. She gave a sharp, harsh sigh, as if forcing herself to remain calm, and they went inside. Like the day before, she flashed her badge and heads turned in their direction to watch him, and perhaps her as well. Ignoring them all, she swiftly moved towards the elevators again, but once they were inside, he made no move to select a floor or tell her which one to choose. She glared impatiently for a moment before saying "Well?"

"Well what?"

"What do you _think—_?" She stopped, forcing her voice down to a furious near-whisper. "_Where_ precisely am I going?"

"I couldn't tell you," he answered calmly. "That was never my area. Besides, I was told quite clearly to stay out of your way, so..."

She gave an angry scoff. "You're useless." She figured he probably did in fact know exactly where the main control office was located, even if he didn't need to know it—he was the sort that would need to know every detail, just in case—but was refusing to help since she was clearly so scornful of his assistance. _Well, fine. Fuck that, I won't beg._ She punched the button for the second floor, not wanting to get out again on the ground floor and draw attention from the guard who'd seen them go in, and stepped out so quickly when the doors opened that his hand fell from her arm and he had to jump out of the elevator awkwardly to catch up with her. She pretended not to notice and instead fixed her eyes on the directory hanging on the wall. He let a moment pass in silence before leaning in and, imitating her annoyed tone from a moment before, whispered _"Well?"_

"Give me a goddamn second," she hissed back, glancing around to make sure they weren't being overheard. "It's not exactly listed like 'break-ins and assassinations, room nine-thirteen.'" He almost laughed at that. She stood silently for another few moments, and a few people moved past them down the corridor. She watched them pass out of the corner of her eye, thinking hard. After a few beats, she grabbed his elbow and said softly "Come on."

"Had a brainwave?"

"No," she said back, so quietly he could barely hear. She appeared to be leading the way. "I'm following someone."

"Of course," he replied, his voiced lilted with amused sarcasm. "I do find people here to be helpful that way. Is he holding a sign for you, like at the airport?"

"Shut up," she muttered angrily. He was going to blow the whole fucking plan with his inane quips. Figuring it was the only way to shut him up, she said "I'm following someone who's not wearing a suit and has a flash drive on his belt."

"And...?"

"By the looks of it, it's about a hundred and twenty-eight gig," she said, still almost inaudible. She rounded a corner, making sure to stay a good thirty feet behind the man, her sharp eyes never leaving him. Sands frowned.

"They don't make bigger than sixty-four," he informed her. Then he gave a rueful chuckle. "Unless, of course—"

"—you're a technician at the Central Intelligence Agency," she finished confidently. "Wherever he's going is probably where he need to be."

"Nice work, Nancy Drew."

"Oh, thank you. That really means a ton."

They followed their unknowing docent down several winding hallways and up two floors before he stopped before a door, scanning his fingers and eyes before entering, the door closing behind him with a very secure-sounding click. Elektra glanced at the sign on the door that confirmed they were in the right place, and then glanced around again; the area was empty aside from them for the time being. "That's where I need to go," she said briskly, her voice low.

Sands made a soft, slightly derisive sound. "Well, then, you _might_ want to know first that there's a door on the other side, leading to another hallway," he informed her snidely. "All the main offices are laid out that way so there's always an escape."

"I know that," she shot back, not missing his point in the slightest. _Yesterday he's bitching at me for being detail-obsessed and now he's trying to tell me how it's really done? Fucker._ She stepped to the side so they were huddled by the wall and leaned close to the door, listening. She heard voices within and waited, keeping quite still and silent for several minutes until she heard the second figure in the room moving away and then exiting through the door on the other side. Knowing she didn't have much time (she knew it was unlikely for such an important room to be manned by one person at a time for very long), she turned back to Sands. "OK, I'm going in there. Come here." Her voice was tough. "And once I'm in there, let me know if someone comes."

"'Let you know'?" he repeated, still highly disdainful. "And do we have a secret clubhouse knock?"

"Oh, you'll figure it out," she sneered, knowing how much he'd hate it. He'd _have_ to alert her if someone came along or risk getting himself caught alongside a mass murderer, but it was an embarrassingly sidekick-y task, and she thought it put him in his place quite nicely. She glanced up and down the hallway one more time, and then dragged him over to the door, where he scanned his prints and she entered the temporary code; she'd memorized it the day before. He moved off to the side, the door clicked open, and she slid inside. Conveniently, the agent they'd followed was sitting in front of a wall of monitors and keypads with his back to her. He turned at the sound of the door opening, but she was across the room and jabbing one hand against just the right spot on his neck before he'd registered a thing. He slumped forward, unconscious—she didn't finish anyone off until the hit itself. It would call way too much attention to herself. It meant, however, that she only had a few minutes to get everything done before he regained consciousness or someone else came in, so she turfed him off the chair onto the floor and sat, pulling on her skintight gloves again as she did so.

Sands stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall and listening to her rapid keystrokes as she figured out how she planned to break down the highest level of building security in the country as casually if she was shopping on eBay. Another time he might have found the situation amusing or maybe even impressive, but he just felt irritated; the fun he'd been having that morning with the way she'd played into his hands seemed to have been replaced with annoyance. Who was _she_, to laugh at him and order him around, when she couldn't even handle a bit of psychological warfare shared over a thai pad? It was undignified, that's what it was. She wasn't putting the job first at all. Stupid headstrong broad, getting all pushed out of shape and over-emotional, claiming to be this impressive warrior and then falling right into his trap...she should have known better. _She_ should have seen it coming and acted accordingly. _Some professional._

Elektra studied the screens closely, watching the code scroll across the page and memorizing rapidly. Pretty standard stuff, really—a few highly useful hacking codes and the system would jam, scrambling the electronic signals zipping around the whole headquarters and giving her ample time to get in and do the job and get out with only a minimal amount of trouble. There was no need to get dramatic about it and shut down the whole place, that would only draw attention. No, just in and out. Yesterday's tour had told her just where she needed to go and where the mark would be at different parts of the day; it was just a matter of timing. This was old hat, really. Once again, just a bit of careful planning and everything would fall into place. She was almost disappointed; she'd expected more of a challenge. _But at this point, nothing's new anymore_, she admitted to herself. _Everything's standard. It's all just systems, really._ It was getting a bit boring.

Another computer screen caught her eye and she glanced over: the man she'd followed had been sorting through an agent's file on another monitor when she'd come in. Curiosity stole over her, and she closed down the mainframe she'd been studying and rolled over to the other screen, hesitating only slightly before minimizing the window and opening another, typing "Sheldon Sands" into the prompt window.

His file popped up almost immediately, and it appeared to be the same as the one Hansen had given her. She clicked around a bit until she found the incident report on the Mexico debacle, expecting to find the full story that he'd left out of the folder--but it wasn't there. Just the notes about the attack on Sands, how he'd gone out "post-procedure." Elektra frowned. Surely there was a much more detailed report somewhere, but shouldn't it have been attached...? She scrolled down, and once again there was just that mysterious single line: "Agent Eva Ajedrez. COD: single GSW to abdomen."And that was it, no linked pages or addition files.

Her frown deepening, she went back a few pages and typed "Eva Ajedrez" into the search box. It seemed to take an extra few seconds to come up with her file, but then it appeared. The photograph showed an attractive Latina woman, her highlighted hair flowing over her shoulders, and her expression, if it was possible, even more contemptuous than Sands' was in his file. She was undeniable attractive, with large, dark eyes and full lips. She even had a stupid little beauty mark on her cheek, like she was a goddamn perfume model instead of a federal agent. Indeed, she was dressed in a conservative suit jacket in the photo, but it looked oddly out-of-place on her, and Elektra somehow thought she'd look more appropriate in something tight and black and possibly ripped. She wasn't sure why, but she found herself scowling slightly as she observed the image. After a second she looked away from the picture and looked over her details: name, birthdate, location of birth, credentials...but that, once again, was it. Elektra hit the 'down' arrow on the keypad a few times in annoyance, thinking the page might have frozen, but no. There was simply nothing else--no details of her assignments or her training or even her death. Just the same line again: "GSW to abdomen" and the date of the coup in Mexico, the day she died. A tiny icon appeared beside the line, signifying the existence of a file, and Elektra clicked eagerly, but "ERROR" flashed back at her instantly.

"Oh, come on," she muttered under her breath. She leaned closer. "This file has been damaged or moved," the dialogue box informed her, unhelpfully. She went back a few pages again and instead searched for the incidence report, using the dates from Sands' file, and received an error again. She went back to Sands' file and tried to find it that way—nothing. On a whim, she searched for Hansen's file and did a phrase search—nothing. No mention of Mexico whatsoever. Suspicion was flooding her in waves now. Her "it doesn't matter" mantra thoroughly forgotten, she glanced over at the agent still slumped on the floor, and, knowing her time was running out, hurriedly went to Sands' file again and searched its properties, looking for 'date modified.' She found it after a moment, and saw a date some four weeks previous. She clicked the code number in the box, knowing it stood for whomever had authorized the changes, and got another "ERROR."

The man on the floor stirred. She leaned forward once more and went back to Eva's file, performing the same search. Same date of modification, same untraceable authorization key. She stared at the screen for a few more seconds, and she slowly began to understand. What the files said, and didn't say, and what Hansen had said, and what Sands had let slip... _So_ that's _what this is. That is completely and utterly_ pathetic.

Out in the hallway, Sands was lost in his irritable musings and almost didn't hear the footsteps approaching until whoever it was was was just around the corner. He quickly slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, holding it up to his ear and pretending to be engrossed in whatever he was hearing, while at the same time quietly knocking shave-and-a-haircut against the wall with his other hand. Surely she'd figure it out.

The footsteps came closer and then stopped. "Agent Sands," the man said, sounding somewhat taken aback. _Shit._ He didn't recognize the voice right away, but it wasn't surprising; he hadn't bothered to remember too many unnecessary people before, and there were an awful lot of those. "Sir," he replied, figuring that would do well enough (either sarcastically or not), still pantomiming his phone call.

"Good to see you back," the man continued, and Sands seethed inwardly for a moment before closing the phone and giving what he thought was something like an appreciative smile back. There was an awkward pause. He drummed his fingers against the wall again, slightly more insistently. Where _was_ she? Two more seconds and he'd go in there and it'd all be over. The other man didn't move. "Waiting for someone?" he asked, and Sands knew exactly what was making his tone so moronically awkward: it wasn't exactly standard procedure for an agent to be hanging around the main control room alone, doing nothing and looking highly suspicious, but he mostly likely couldn't think of a way to tell tragic, heroic, helpless Agent Sands to get the hell out. Still, it was most decidedly frowned upon. This guy was plainly someone above him or someone on his level or below who was something of a suck-up; for neither of which did Sands have any patience. "Something like that," he replied vaguely, listening as hard as he could for movement within the room. Couldn't she hear their voices?

"So have they given you any new cases yet?" Apparently he was determined to drive him away with with mindless drivel, which actually would have worked pretty well in the past. But that was then. "I've got a few balls in the air," Sands said dryly.

"That's good," the other man said vaguely. A few more seconds passed in painfully hesitant silence as the agent studied Sands' t-shirt ("All in favor of Viagra, please rise") and Sands grew more irritated with both he and the still-absent Elektra. Then: "Well, We should be getting on with it, eh?" He drummed his briskly hands on his legs in a that-settles-that sort of way, but Sands said nothing. He felt distinctly hot around the ears and neck and just stood there, teeth clenched. Of course he couldn't fucking _get on with it._ He hadn't the faintest clue how to get out of there; he'd hardly ever been in that area before, and even he couldn't have memorized that speedy path they'd taken there _that_ quickly. He could think of a number of plausible lies as to why he was there, but that, of course, was secondary. He was, quite simply, fucked.

That simp was still standing there, and seemed to arrive belatedly at the same conclusion, and said "Oh—sorry, did you need a—"

"_There_ you are." Elektra came striding around the corner—apparently she had slipped out the door on the other side of the room and into the hall on the other side. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to." There was a most unconvincing sweetness to her voice; he knew immediately that it had all been quite on purpose. The fact that she was letting the other agent see her face and hear her voice showed just how far she was willing to go to screw him.

The other agent looked at her in surprise. "Oh," he said again. "Never mind, then." He looked torn between pity and awe: this beautiful woman was here with _him?_ "Take care, then."

Elektra gave him a demure smile, and then said "Let's go" to Sands, who continued to say nothing, his face still burning with angry embarrassment. Her fingers closed around his arm, but now her grip was firm, controlling, not angry and resentful like earlier. She was also no longer walking in the stealthy, quiet, sneaking way she had before; now she was almost strutting with confidence. As they sped away, he heard her give a very small, wry laugh under her breath, and he imagined her smirking in satisfaction. He didn't need to ask; he knew what she was so pleased about. She knew exactly what had just happened, and she was glad of it. Whatever had happened the night before, it was clear to them both that in the space of the hour, she'd managed to win this round.


	8. Chapter 8

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer:** Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

* * *

They stayed at headquarters for a few more hours; Elektra insisted on going through her previous day's paces again and double-checking on the location of her mark's office and the different routes she could take to get there. Sands rather thought she was just determined to drag him around the building as much as possible to emphasize her victory over him—he understood, of course, that she'd fully intended to humiliate him back at the security office, and it had worked quite well. He figured she'd probably slipped out the other door and into the hallway running parallel to the one where he'd been and then waited just around the corner for the right moment to jump out and point out just how helpless he was. He was ostensibly there to be her lookout, but really, she could have done the thing without him; it was he who needed her. At least, that seemed to be her point. It was an unusual experience for him; people who tried to fool him usually didn't get a chance to pull it off all the way. She spoke minimally, only addressing him when she was announcing a new command or plan of action, but every time she spoke he could hear that same smug note in her voice, that aura of triumph, of one-upping someone else. He had no trouble recognizing it, as he sounded like that himself most of the time.

Several hours and a silent cab ride later, they were back at the hotel, and Elektra sank onto the sofa and put on the TV. She really didn't watch it much, ever, but she was so enjoying acting casually nonchalant when he was clearly seething that she thought she'd complete the performance with thoroughly relaxed actions—and if they were ones he himself couldn't do, so much the better. She flipped the channels aimlessly, her emotions flicking from complacently pleased to furious as quickly as the flickering images in front of her. She'd gotten one over on him, to be sure, but still. Who did he think he was, mocking her and acting so goddamn superior when _he_ had let himself to be tricked so entirely and drastically? She'd made mistakes, to be sure, but they were _nothing_ to what he'd done, what he'd _allowed_ to happen...

A great while later, it seemed, Sands, who was in the bedroom, said abruptly "Found everything, did you?"

Elektra started. "Excuse me?"

"You seemed to need an extra run-through today, going all around the place like that again," he said calmly. "I thought you'd figured everything out _yesterday_, but..." He let her voice trail off delicately, his unfinished sentence saying it all.

She snorted. _This_ was his terrific comeback? "It's called being thorough," she shot back coolly. "Wouldn't want to be unprepared and walk right into a trap. That would just be...oh, unbearably stupid."

_Ah, so that's what we're playing. Fine by me._ "Indeed it would," he replied, as if he didn't know what she was getting at. "Well, it's not unreasonable." He moved into the sitting room, sitting down slowly in the chair across the room from her, as if sinking onto a throne. He hadn't switched on the light, of course, and he was half-hidden in shadow as the sun sank beyond the window. "I guess you've _got_ to be a little more careful now."

"Excuse me?" she repeated, flaring up again. She knew she was being baited, but she couldn't stop herself. "What do you mean, 'now'?"

He shrugged delicately. "You said yourself last night you 'got a bit too into it' and got careless. I certainly see why you'd want to slow things down a bit after something like that."

"I didn't say—that doesn't mean I—" _You motherfucker._ "That isn't what I meant," she spat finally, trying to sound as contemptuous as possible, as though he was an idiot for misunderstanding her simple point. "I didn't _screw up_ any assignments or anything, I just...it just wasn't the right way to go about things. For me. Personally."

He gave a derisive snort. "Whatever you say." It couldn't be plainer that he wasn't buying it, though. _Really, how hard can it_ be? He couldn't help but think of El: _he_ hadn't bothered with all this dramatic reconnaissance foolishness, he just got down to it, guns blazing, no questions asked. _...Not that everything had gone really according to plan, but..._ It was just self-indulgent nonsense, all this creeping around and demanding several days and disguises and all the rest of it. He reached into his pocket and lit a cigarette, the flare of light illuminating his face for a moment. "I just thought you had a bit more experience with this sort of thing."

"I have plenty," she snapped. "For your information, logistically speaking, this is one of the easier jobs I've had in a while." It was almost true; the security system she'd examined was a relatively simple one. Overall, though, the assignment was quite a headache indeed.

"Oh, so it's easy_,"_ he echoed. "That _does_ make it sound more respectable."

"Yes, and being my _assistant_ is as dignified as it gets," she volleyed back. "Really. Be proud."

"And clearly the fact that you _need_ an 'assistant' proves how well your reputation precedes you. That was Hansen's idea, not yours."

"Oh, yeah, he's brilliant. I'm just wildly concerned about what he thinks. Amazing judge of character," she replied sarcastically. _Trying to insult me by_ defending _him after what he did...!_

"No, he's an idiot," Sands said smoothly, "but he actually does have rather a lot of experience in this sort of thing. If he thinks you need a _sidekick_..." He shrugged again. "Not the biggest vote of confidence, is it? Wouldn't ask him for a letter of recommendation when you're done, is all I'm saying."

"You really think he would have hired me for _this_ if he didn't think I could do it without help?" she demanded. She was angled towards him now, fists on her knees. Christ, he was infuriating. "You just make things a little less messy, that's all. Don't flatter yourself."

"Maybe that's just what he's letting you believe, hmm?" He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette a little harder than he meant to. "Letting you think I'm just your lackey when really..." He pretended to search for the right phrase. "I'm the baby-sitter."

"That's not how it works," she scoffed. "I don't have to explain myself to you, of all people. You're hardly an expert."

"Ah, but you already did," he pointed out, leaning back comfortably in the chair. "I think we both know that."

"Did what?"

"You already explained yourself to me, quite well. Don't you remember? Just last night."

"Oh, get over it, Sands," she sneered. "We talked about Broadway and killing stuff for a few minutes. That doesn't mean you know everything about my job. It wasn't really a dear-diary moment." _Close enough, though._

"That's true," he said thoughtfully. "We did leave out a few things."

"Imagine that."

"No, really. Quite interesting things, actually."

"What'd we leave out, favorite color? If you still have one, I mean," she added meanly, putting on a smirk to match his.

"That...and the rest of you," he replied, his voice growing even more silkily hypnotic. "I asked you in the car the other day, but you never did say...how does a girl like you get to be a girl like you?"

"'A girl like—' What is that, an Eagles song?" she scoffed. "Really, I don't know why I was even hired; you could off people with your cutting wit alone."

He acted as though she hadn't spoken and said "Go on, tell me: how'd you get into the business?"

"There was a flyer hanging up at my dorm," she said dryly. "'Lucrative career, lots of travel...' I thought it sounded just great."

"Hmm." He acknowledged her joke with a very slight, condescending nod. "Want to hear my theory?"

"Not in the slightest."

"I think it started when you were a kid," he said, again speaking as if he hadn't heard her reply. "Always something interesting about death, wasn't there? Something a bit alluring?"

This time, she didn't reply. This was going in a very bad direction, but she could think of nothing to say that wouldn't just encourage him. She looked away from him, staring unseeingly at the TV, and forced herself not to listen. _Don't go there. Don't you fucking dare._

He correctly interpreted her silence as a confirmation, however, and continued. "And from what I understand, you're quite good at all that ninja stuff—" he made a mocking sort of judo-chop gesture with one hand "—so good, in fact, that I can only assume that you've been trained since early childhood. A tough sensei, maybe, up at dawn to do laps..." He paused meaningfully, taking a long drag on the cigarette. "Really, it's hard to believe you just fell into this profession; it sounds more like you were groomed for it. Like destiny."

Elektra looked down and realized her fists were clenched. _Don't say anything. Don't fall for it again._ She forced herself to take slow, even breaths, like she did when she meditated. It was hard to concentrate, though, with his voice in her ear. She felt hot all over. _Focus._

Sands took a careful pause, exhaling smoke through his nose. "And of course, since you carefully avoided any mention of them last night, I can only assume your parents pushed you into this kind of lifestyle. Well—" He held up a hand as if apologizing and corrected, "not _this_ type of lifestyle, of course. I hardly think they raised a contract killer on purpose. You were meant to do something _noble_ with your talents, right?" He paused, but he didn't expect her to respond, and she didn't. "Something good and honorable, but instead you do this...undoubtedly they wouldn't be pleased at all with their little girl, so I'm assuming they don't know. And because you operate under your own name and have a fair degree of fame in this business, I'm further assuming that they don't know because they're dead, yes?"

He posed this last question as unemotionally as though he was theorizing about the next day's weather, but inwardly he was quite enjoying this—he figured this bit out the day before, but he wanted to wait to reveal what he knew until it would bother her the most. Now seemed a good moment, now that she was so sure of herself and her power over him. "But despite this, it's rather hard to ignore the profound Freudian issues at work here, so I'm thinking we're still trying to impress someone...perhaps an older brother? Was I wrong about the only-child thing?" Again, she made no reply, but he knew she was listening; he thought he could hear her shaking breaths. "Or perhaps, more simply, we're just dealing with some pretty severe daddy issues, is that it? It doesn't matter that he's gone, the effect's still there—nothing ever impressed him, did it? Had to be stronger, better...still wasn't pleased with you, though. Maybe it _was_ the brother thing," he considered, waving the cigarette slightly as he thought out loud. "Maybe he only wanted boys, so you worked and worked to prove you could be just as good, but it still wasn't enough. So now you do this, and you're the best of the best, but it's still not enough, so you _got a bit too into it..."_

_"Shut up."_

The words burst from her in a harsh, whispered bark before she could even think to stop herself. She was on her feet, although she didn't remembering jumping up, and she realized she was shaking. He had found it, the one thing, the last button he shouldn't push. The thing that started everything, that made her _this_, the one thing she couldn't think about or she'd break, fall, lose the restraint and the strength she'd worked so furiously, endlessly to uphold.

Even across the now-dark room she could make out his face as he raised his eyebrows superciliously. "Have I touched a nerve?"

"You don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Elektra spat, although she knew she'd just proven quite the opposite. She tried to force her voice to sound mildly exasperated, rather than seethingly full of rage, which was difficult. "You can stop playing your little guessing-game and trying to impress me with your deductive skills, all right? You don't know what you're talking about and it's just pathetic."

"Pathetic?" he repeated, and now his voice was cold, not lightly mocking like a moment before. "Interesting that a person who hates her life, kills for a living without even _enjoying_ it and longs for approval from her dead father would call anyone else pathetic." He paused for effect. "Or was I wrong about all that?"

She snorted. "At least I _have_ a career," she retorted. "At least I'm not still desperately hanging around the big boys' club, pretending I still belong there, refusing to accept that my career and my _life_ are fucked because I screwed up a job. Because I think that's the textbook _definition_ of pathetic."

"A career?" he shot back, with a bark of a laugh, and now he was on his feet too, and they were standing eight feet apart in the shadowy sitting room, as if ready for a shoot-out. "That's what you call it? I think I'd call it being a few degrees above a whore, actually. You give people--men, usually--whatever they need to satisfied them as long as they pay enough, no matter what you have to do to get there, and you're at their mercy. Your body's your weapon, it's all you've got. Without those little ninja skills of yours, you'd be nothing." He flicked the end of his cigarette away with unwonted force and added "And that wouldn't be so bad, really, but the fact that you let yourself get so fucked up over it and still hold onto all your egotistical, little-girl daddy issues after everything and _still_ try to act like this impressive, mystic warrior--well, that's just _sad."_

"You'd know a thing or two about whores, wouldn't you," she sneered back. "What, didn't _Eva_ want to fuck you anymore?"

She hadn't quite meant to say it, not quite like that, anyway, but the effect was startling and quite satisfying—he hadn't been expecting that; he stiffened and his whole face darkened, and his voice was soft and downright dangerous when he said "Excuse me?"

"Eva. Did you forget about her?" she asked, breathing hard. "I doubt it, since it's her name you're calling out at night. ...Or did you not know?" she added, feigning confusion. He may have figured out her secrets, but she was still armed with everything she'd learned from the files earlier that day. "Because, that's right—she's _dead_, isn't she? No one's spent the night for a while, then, eh, Sands?"

He took a step towards her, his jaw working, as if he couldn't decide what to throw at her next. She let him agonize over it for a few seconds, and waited until he opened his mouth to reply before jumping in with "What, 'how did I know?' Is that what you're going to ask? I guess that was just me being too _thorough_ again. Just like a girl, right?" She smirked at the unfathomable expression on his face. "Because really, in the pathetic-game, I think the clear winner is the guy who ends up working for the person who held him down and stuck a drill in his face and then killed his girlfriend. I'd say _that's_ about as sad as it gets, wouldn't you?"

A slight crease appeared in the spot between where Sands' dark eyes used to be, but otherwise his expression remained unreadable. "What are you talking about?" he finally said.

"Eva. And Hansen," she replied promptly. "I can read, Sands. It's not that hard to figure out. Someone deleted her files about a month ago. There's nothing there, no history, no previous missions, nothing. No details about her death. Someone edited the incidence report about your little Mexican adventure as well. In as much as you haven't yet mastered walking down a hall on your own yet, I'm _fairly_ sure it wasn't you. Hansen was the one who told me everything and gave me your file, but he didn't mention anything about it being doctored, which means he knew about it. Which means he did it. Which means he was in on it." She was nearly grinning, she was enjoying this so much. It _was_ kind of satisfying to unravel the mysteries. "I'm guessing she was there with you, working the case, and she figured out too much, rather like yourself, and he put her down." She moved closer to him yet again; they were only about a foot apart now. "You weren't supposed to live, were you, Sands," she asked softly, gazing right into his face. "But you got away, and you've known all along what happened to her, because you were there. She went first." She watched him closely for a reaction, but he gave her nothing. "Did he make you watch?" She imitated his fearful, sleep-blurred voice. "'Eva...no, don't, no.' Was that the last thing you ever saw?"

Still, he said nothing. He might have been standing bored at a bus stop, showing no reaction whatsoever to her words. Still, she knew he was listening to every word, and it was driving him mad. She just knew. "Yeah, you got away, and now you've got nothing, and Hansen knows he can blackmail you into doing whatever he wants, and you can't prove a thing. So..." She pretended to think it over. "You're kind of his bitch. And that's kind of like 'whore,' except you don't get paid. So you can play all the games you want and be a dime-store shrink and try to convince _yourself_ that you're not utterly worthless, because I'm not buying it. I don't care enough to buy it. I just think it's all really very..._sad."_

He still said nothing. She could just see herself reflected faintly twice in the stupid sunglasses he was still wearing, her face alight with malice. He just stood there for a several moments, considering everything she had said. She was still breathing hard, the excitement of revealing her lascivious findings apparently getting her quite worked up. She hadn't been this animated in the three days he'd known her. _Investigative little thing, aren't you._ The corners of his mouth quirked upwards. She just waited, satisfied, knowing he had nothing to say in reply. Then, moving faster than she would have guessed possible, his hand flew up and slapped her, with astonishing strength, right across the face. She staggered, reeling, momentarily unable to react.

She had never in her life been hit by a man like that. Struck, certainly, with quite as much fervor and more, but with fists, with weapons, with anything and everything in reach. Punched, shoved, kicked, yes. Shot, sliced, _skewered—_but never _slapped_, with an open hand, as though she were a willful housewife. The contempt in the action could not have been more clear, the _disrespect—_and in that one moment, all of her rules and her obsessively maintained control and everything she was forcing herself to be vanished like smoke. She saw him, clearly, and rage broke over her like boiling water. She hauled back, her face livid, and hit him right in the jaw with all the strength she could muster.

He stumbled backwards and his dark glasses went flying, and it was, most unmistakably, on. She lunged forward again, but he was ready for her, grabbing hold of her outstretched arm and twisting it around behind her, shoving her up against the wall dividing the sitting room and the bedroom. "Now, don't be like that," he said silkily, his mouth very close to her ear, pressing her cheek against the wall. "I'm sure we can—"

She broke free of his grip with a vicious wrench, elbowing him across the face and catching him on the shoulder with a side kick. He fell again, this time hitting the coffee table and shoving it several feet across the carpet. His arm flew out and he found the decorative glass bowl filled with dried flowers sitting pointlessly atop the table, and he waited for her to move in again before grabbing her ankle with one hand and smashing the bowl into her kneecap with the other. She gave a snarl of pain and dropped to the carpet, and he leapt on her. Then they were tussling around on the carpet, a few dried flowers crushing beneath them, one of his hands around her throat. She managed to get a leg up and kicked him away, jumping back to her feet and darting into the next room, reaching for the knife still stored under the pillow on the bed—she was going to finish this, the right way—but somehow he knew exactly what she was thinking and was behind her in a second, throwing an arm around her neck again. She threw him off and spun around to face him, and he was ready with a right hook, which she only just blocked. She delivered an open-handed blow to his chest and knocked the wind out of him, and when he bent over, she seized the back of his shirt and brought her knee up, hard. He fell back, bringing a hand to his bloodied face, but dove at her when she stepped closer, catching her around the middle and slamming her hard into the dresser, which rattled loudly against the wall. Her head and shoulders collided hard with the mirror mounted on the top, which broke, raining a few shards of glass over her.

It should have been over in about ten seconds, all things considered. There was no comparing the two of them when it came to fighting skills. But that was just it: he _was_ fighting her. He had started it, and he was daring to fight back. It infuriated her out of her senses; he thought he had a _chance_? The others were never this foolish, this arrogant to even try. Oh, they always tried for a moment or two, certainly; most everyone will fight for their life even once they realize it is too late, but if it lasted more than a few seconds, there was always the moment of understanding, of resignation to that which they could not help and, often, had been expecting. He should have been begging at her feet, pleading for his pointless life, but he wouldn't. He, this worthless spook, this mangled freak, had the audacity to go up against her, and hit her, again and again, and act like he was _anything_ compared to her, and it was making her so angry she couldn't think straight. And that, of course, made all the difference.

Something tickled her hand, and she looked down to see blood running down her arm, a piece of glass from the mirror embedded in her flesh above the elbow. She ripped it out in annoyance, and he aimed another punch at her face, which she caught in her open hand. She forced his arm away and grabbed him by the back of his hair and tried to slam him to the floor again, but he twisted free of her grasp and aimed another strike at her nose with his elbow, and she had to release him to avoid it. She darted right and across the room to her bed, where she snatched the knife from under her pillow and hurled at him. He heard her grunt of effort and ducked, and it flew across the room and caught the shade of the lamp sitting on the dresser. It wobbled for a moment before the whole thing tumbled off the edge and smashed, plunging the already-dim room into darkness, the only light in the room now filtering in through the gap in the curtains from the yellowish streetlight outside, and flickering against the far wall from the TV in the other room. She heard him give a quiet laugh, as if he thought he'd just gained an advantage over her, and the sound only made her more angry.

If they were going to bring toys into this, he figured he had better catch up, and made a move for his gun, which he knew he had left lying on the chair next to the table when he had gone into the living room to taunt her. She moved fast, though, and expertly clotheslined him with an outstretched arm, causing him to fall back. He hit the ground and rolled back onto his feet, reaching out and grabbing the chair and yanking it over, so that his gun slid onto the floor. He grabbed it and jumped up, and she aimed a roundhouse kick at his hand, which only narrowly missed; he felt the breeze of it against his face. He fired off a silenced shot right where her chest should be, but she had leapt away, seeing it in his hand, and the bullet hit the wall behind her. He heard a clank of metal to his right and knew she was going for her bag where the rest of her weaponry was, and thumbed back the hammer, cocking his head to listen and preparing to fire again, but she was on him in a second, slamming the heavy blunt end of her sai into his wrist and causing him to drop the gun. _She means business,_ he thought, _if she's brought out her favorite little knives._

Sands jumped back as she slashed furiously at him with the sharp end this time, and she just barely caught him, cutting a razor-thin slice in his T-shirt. He took a few more steps back to avoid her, feeling around for the dropped Glock with his foot, and then faked to the left and dropped quickly to grab it, bringing it up fast and hitting her across the face with it. She slashed at him again, and he grabbed her arm with his free hand and forced it away, shoving her back several paces and banging the gun into the back of her head as he seized a handful of her hair in the same hand and tried to bash her head against the table. She moved her leg between his and stamped hard on his instep, and his grip slacked and she yanked away, kicking him hard in the stomach. He fell back, and she leaped around him into the open space beside the doorway between the two rooms, not wanting to be confined in the space by the table and gripped her sai, preparing to stab, but he surprised her again, half-tackling her and shoving her hard up against the wall. His hand encircled her wrist and he slammed her hand against the plaster, cracking it slightly and causing her to drop her sai. She still had the other one, however, and she stuck it right against his throat at the same moment that he pressed the muzzle of the gun he'd managed to hold onto up against her temple.

They both stood there for a moment, breathing hard, their faces mere inches apart. She could see right into his sockets; in the dark of the room they were deep shadows in his face. He pressed hard against her, trapping her against the wall, his knee between hers. She pressed the point of the blade harder under his chin, and a droplet of blood shivered against the silver. "Didn't...anyone ever tell you?" he panted, giving a cruel grin. There was blood on his teeth. "Never bring a knife to a gun fight." He tapped the gun against her head. "Stick that little sword of yours wherever you like, but I pull this and you're done before you can say 'karate kid.'"

She spat into his face. "I'm in no hurry," she snarled. "You can die as slowly as you'd like. It'd really be wiser to let me do it, though—" she jerked her shoulders, and he pressed harder against her, his hips right against hers "—because you kill me, and I assure you, the people who come after you won't be nearly as nice as I am. You'll be begging to be back in _Mexico_ by the time they're done with you." He chuckled at this, and she turned her wrist, twisting the blade against his skin. "When I kill you, though--I'm just finishing the job they didn't get right last time."

There was a moment's pause, and then he leaned even closer to her, apparently ignoring the blade in his neck, and whispered "Then what are you waiting for?"

"What about you, Quick Draw?" she breathed back. "Why don't you show me how _fast_ you are with that little tool of yours?" She nudged her head against the gun still pressed against her temple. "If you've got the balls."

There was another, pulsating silence. Nothing happened for a moment. Then his hand holding the gun twitched, and she slid the the sai's point a few inches to the right, as if deciding on the best spot. Then he lunged forward, closing the the gap between their faces so violently that her head slammed against the wall with a thud. For one bewildered half-second she thought he was trying to head-butt her, and then realized that his mouth was pressed hard to hers, slightly open, biting her lower lip.

She was so shocked that it happened for a few seconds before she reacted, but react she did, reversing her grip on the sai and hitting him hard on the jaw with it with an impact that made her own teeth rattle. "What the _fuck_ are you--" she gasped.

He leaned into her again, and this time she felt his tongue against her lips, and his hand slid from her throat down into the V-neck of her shirt. This time, even she had no trouble telling what he was after. She twisted her face away, now shoving her free hand between them and trying to push him away. "Get the fuck off me," she growled, pressing her hand hard into his solar plexus. "I said, get _off—_no—" She hit him, hard, and he took a half step back, but then grabbed her throat and pushed her head against the wall again, forcing her face around to meet his. She felt the warm blood from his face on her own skin. She hit him across in the face, twice, a third time, but it was as if she hadn't bothered, for all the notice he took--his mouth was on hers again, then on her neck, and felt his teeth as well as his tongue against her skin. His hand slid from her neck down her side and onto her thigh. She shoved against him and he pushed back, his belt buckle against her stomach, his leg between hers. And all the while, he kept his gun pressed to the side of her head.

This was _wrong_, this wasn't her, she wasn't the girl who had to struggle, who had to yell. There was nothing lying between what she wanted and what she got, what she gave; she was better than that. She was never out of control, it was always her and then everyone else, separate, above, adrift. _This should be over._ But it wasn't, she was still here, twisting under his tight grip, and she could hear herself repeating _no._ He ran a single finger down her throat. "Who are you talking to?" he said, very softly, right in her ear.

_"Get off!"_ she said again, and her voice rose almost to a yell as she jerked away. "I'll kill you," she snarled, now pressing the length of the blade across his throat to prevent him getting in close to her. "I swear to God I'll kill you."

"Then kill me," he panted quietly, dragging the muzzle of the gun down across her cheek and pressing it to her bruised lips. "Go on, then."

She jerked her arm up and smacked the gun away, and it tumbled to the floor—either because she surprised him or because he let it go, she couldn't tell—and he pulled the arm holding the sai away from his neck and pressed against her again. _Now!_ a voice in her mind roared. _Think! He's disarmed—go for his throat; go for the femoral if he's got your arm trapped; just reach around his back and put it right in his lung...! This is textbook,_ she thought desperately. _Just do it—_

But something was wrong. She couldn't think straight. Her mind was fogging over; suddenly she couldn't remember her most basic moves and couldn't get the right grip to force him away _(he has no weapon and you do; what are you doing; hit him in the head with it if you can't manage anything else)_ and she tried to force her mind to focus on arteries and choke holds and pressure points, but she was distracted; it seemed she could be aware of nothing but the heat of his hand now pushing between her legs and the way he was pulling her hair and biting at her throat—she knew it was 'no,' it had to be, it was always 'no,' but quite suddenly, she couldn't remember why. She hated him, _hated_ him, wanted him dead, knew he deserved nothing more than to die like a mad dog—and yet, somehow, that didn't seem to be very terribly relevant.

_"Don't,"_ Elektra said, but it came out half a groan, and she heard a distant, dull clank as her sai hit the floor _(how did he get it from you? never let your weapon go; finish the job, that's the rule)_ and she realized she was no longer pushing him, but pulling him, one hand clutching a fistful of T-shirt, the other arm tight around his neck. She was pressing back against him, her lips parting, and she tasted him, smoky, and salty too, from where she'd bitten him (or he'd bitten her? she couldn't tell the difference). Her fingers dragged down his neck, her short nails digging into his skin, and his hands were at her throat and in her hair again. It made no sense, it was ridiculous...and yet, what wasn't? Everything between them was absurd. She'd had both life and death and didn't know the difference anymore; he had had the chance for everything and lost it all, and hadn't realized he cared about any of it until it was too late, and as hard as they'd both tried to win the fight they'd just had, because winning was all they knew, secretly both of them would have been just as content with the result of a loss.

He dropped both hands abruptly to her waist, and he tightened his grip so hard it seemed as though he was going to lift her right off her feet, but he just slid both hands straight up, pressing against her ribs and under her arms, lifting them both above her head, and she—let him, her head rolling back against the wall, her chest heaving. He pinned both her wrists with his forearm, and then grabbed at her again with his other hand, undoing the fly on her black trousers with one hand and pulling them open, exposing her sharp hips. He pulled on her shirt, yanking it up to her throat, and running a hand down her shivering body. He gave a slight, approving nod; yes, she was everything he had been expecting. His hair fell into his face as he began to fumble with his belt, still leaning into her with his arm still trapping hers above her head. She watched him at it for a moment, her mind still falling away, unable to think anything at all, really, until finally one odd thought managed to push through the fog: _he's not going to have _all _the fun._

Quite suddenly, she wrenched her arms down and yanked her shirt the rest of the way over her head, and then grabbed his shirtfront again, this time with both hands. His eyebrows shot up in a look of comical surprise, but he didn't say a word. She forced him to step backwards several paces until the edge of the table caught him right under the ass and he fell back, and she shoved him right onto it onto his back and slid astride him, her knees crushing his sides. His expression of impressed surprise increased. His arm knocked against the mug still sitting on the table's surface and it fell to the floor and cracked. She grabbed at the thin tear she'd made in his shirt with her sai and yanked, tearing it right down the middle (it really was a very stupid shirt) and then leaned forward, pulling him up by the shoulders to meet her. His hands found her hips and gripped hard. Her mouth sought his again, and she pulled him to her violently, tasting blood again. His hand slid up her back and unsnapped her bra in one quick, clearly practiced movement. His torn shirt fell aside as his chest rose and fell unsteadily, and she saw a faded tattoo over his heart; she had to lean in to read it in the dark room. It was a skull and crossbones, with the words "death is certain." She gave a low, short laugh—it was certainly what?

He sat up against her now and slid both hands around her ribcage, and this time he did lift her, with surprising strength yet again, and she clung to him tightly, her legs around his waist, letting it happen. He took her over to the bed--not her bed, which was right beside the table, but his, a few feet away--and spread her upon it, shrugging his shirt off and casting it aside. He slid both hands up her leg, rather as he had done in the car just days before, and slowly unzipped her knee-high boot and slid it off, one, then the other. He seemed to be in no hurry whatsoever now that the fight had ended. He reached for his belt again and removed it, then slid forward on the bed and eased her chinos down her long legs and off. There was an air of businesslike sensuality to his everything he did--it was neat and orderly, one thing and then the next, and yet she could feel the hard pressure of his hands and the pleasure he was taking in doing things his way, doing whatever he liked. She leaned back against the headboard, watching him, her mouth tight shut against the cry fighting to get out of her, refusing to let herself reveal just how badly she wanted, wanted, wanted.

He leaned over her, quite as naked as she was now, and slid his hands under her thighs, pushing her up further onto the bed, into the positions he liked. She was half sitting up now, her hair falling in tangles to her elbows. He slipped back down and slid his shoulders under her legs and tossed his hair off his face. Without preamble he ducked down and pressed his tongue to her clit, and now she shuddered, her hands gripping the edges of the sheet. His hand slid up over her abdomen, quite languidly, until his fingers found her scar, and he lifted his head, intrigued. He then moved his mouth straight up, over her taut stomach to the raised, uneven area of flesh, and bit her lightly. He heard her soft gasps of pleasure, or perhaps pain; he was never quite sure of the difference. She leaned her head back and lost track of where he was; she felt mouth, fingers, tongue everywhere. He still seemed in no hurry to get the main event; he took his time, spending time on every inch. His mouth skimmed over the gash on her arm from the broken mirror, his tongue running along the thin, sticky stream down to her wrist, while two (and then three) fingers were sliding in the heat between her legs. She found herself gripping his hair as she moved against him, and she felt him pressing against the inside of her leg, hard, ready, and yet still he roamed over her, almost curiously, as if wanting to get the full picture before zeroing in.

Overall, she had to admit he wasn't like she expected him to be--not that she had _expected_ anything at all, of course; it had never even entered her mind. She would have guessed he was one of those overly-macho types: fast, brutal, showing off, desperate to show how strong he was. Given his appetite for violence and his ruthlessness during their battle, not to mention his wildly egotistical nature, it seemed to follow that he would be just as full of bravado at this, holding her down, hissing obscenities in her ear, telling her to say that she liked it and all of that other nonsense. He had attained what he wanted, what she hadn't seemed to want to give, and she would have thought he'd be savoring his victory as much as possible. But no, he was quite different; he was neither gentle nor rough, neither focused entirely on himself or particularly invested in doing what she liked, he simply--was there, without rushing or fumbling, just practiced and assured. It was the way he did everything else, really. That was who he was.

Rather suddenly, it seemed, he grasped her hips and pulled her forward, down on the bed towards him so that her head lay flat on the pillow, and he angled himself just so and she felt him push all the way inside in one smooth movement. She shuddered and took in her breath sharply, but made no other sound. He took hold of her left knee, curious to see just how far this ninja-gymnast thing would go, and pushed her leg up towards her head, sliding her calf over his shoulder as he did so. In response, she pulled him up against her, so his chest was right over hers, and slid her other leg around his waist, gripping him tightly with both arms. He pushed into her—rolling his hips, in a way, rather than shoving--and she moved against him, arms and legs tangled everywhere. There was no sound, nothing except for the sound of their skin on the sheets, of flesh on flesh and their ragged breathing.

It wasn't as though this was something new for him. He'd kept his bed (floor, table, shower, backseat, whatever) well-populated for as long as he could remember, and there really hadn't been a decline since Mexico—hell, there wasn't even a decline _in_ Mexico. He wouldn't soon forget that final night in the hospital, lying there trying to figure out how to sneak a smoke in the bathroom and hearing the last voice he would ever expect from the doorway. _"So, it is true, what they're saying about you."_ And after that, the feeling of those strong hands, that willing, hot mouth...That was a memorable one, to be sure. And not a lot changed when he got back to Langley, either, at least not in that area--he wasn't about to let something like that stop him, and it didn't, he just altered his approach ever so slightly. Eva had never been the only one, no reason for anything to change now that she had gone. People still responded to him the same way as ever, drawn in by the sensual danger he seemed to exude, all of them seeming to know better and yet not care. And once they realized what was under the dark glasses (or rather, what _wasn't_), that usually didn't change things; they were shocked and yet intrigued, unnerved and yet always wanting to hear the story. Some of them had heard about him in the papers, of course, and it amused him for a while, hearing their hushed, impressed tones and sensing their pity, all thinking he was some tragic hero.

But after a while, he realized something _was_ different after all. He'd never had a problem paying for it when that took his fancy, but it was starting to be more of a necessity these days, it seemed. And they weren't just curious and fascinated anymore, they were unnerved, even afraid. And at first _that_ had been fairly amusing as well, sensing their discomfort and knowing they had no choice; he was a customer and that was that...but after a while, that lost its fun too. He could feel them shying away from the scars on his body, sensed their revulsion at his mutilated face, and to his surprise, it angered him—who were _they_ to act like he was anything to be disgusted by? They were nothing, useless street trash; they _belonged_ to him for that moment, their bodies and their lives didn't even belong to them. It made him more edgy than usual; one girl had laughed as she told him that his socks were different colors as she knelt before him, and he hadn't realized his hands were around her neck until it was too late, and then he'd had that to deal with on top of everything else. It wasn't that he wasn't used people being disturbed by him, it was that he was used to being in control of it. On impulse, he took his hand off her thigh and touched her face, which was right below his. Her eyes were open.

She had stopped worrying by now, stopped thinking about how insane it all was and how she shouldn't and how it was wrong and stupid. She wasn't aware of thinking anything at all, really, and it was strangely blissful not to be planning or waiting or watching. She had been on autopilot for so long, just doing whatever made perfect sense and nothing more, and she had thoroughly forgotten what it felt like to have nothing but feelings, to do what she truly _wanted_ without logic or reason. It felt...dangerous, and it felt so strange, almost laughable, to even think of the word--everything she did was _dangerous_, she herself was the most _dangerous_ woman around, or so they kept saying—how could she think of anything as being that way when it was all she knew? It was her default, that which most scared the hell out of most people bored her, and yet somehow, this seemed thrilling and precarious, and it excited her more than anything had done in years. It was insane, and she didn't mind that. She liked it.

He was moving a bit faster now, his grip tightening on her side. Once again she was visited by the desire to take hold of the moment, like when she'd pushed him onto the table, and quite suddenly she reared up, sitting up against him. He slid both legs under her so she was astride him, legs wrapped around his hips, and she swiveled her hips against him, her arm draped over his shoulder. His hand sought her breast, and she felt his hair and his hot breath against her face as he panted, thrusting up against her, and she waited until she could tell he was about to finish before she reached around, gripping a handful of his hair and bringing her lips to his face again, this time starting at his mouth and sliding up until her tongue slid in, against the soft scars where his dark, clever eyes used to be, one and then the other.

He gave a violent shudder that almost unseated her, giving a soft, involuntary gasp that was almost a cry and gripping her painfully tight. She kept one hand tangled in his hair and pressed the other against his shoulder, sliding up and down against him, and she could feel her heart thudding and all the air seemed to be crushing, tightening out of her as she spiraled higher and higher until finally everything fell down, and in that one mindless moment she understood, faintly, like a shout from a distance, that it didn't matter what you wanted. There _was_ no space between what you wanted and what you finally got, because want was an illusion in your head; the only thing that lasted was what you did and what _was_. Everything else was vapor.

When they finally rolled apart and lay side-by-side on the bed, not touching, Elektra found herself pressing a hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath. It was as though every nerve in her body was firing off at once, and she couldn't remember how to focus it so that it was manageable, the way she did when she was fighting so that she didn't feel it and it didn't hurt. And it wasn't that everything _hurt_, precisely, it was just that she was aware of every inch of herself at once, and it was too much. Sands, on the other hand, lay still. She could barely even hear him breathing.

After a few minutes, she gathered herself and got up, taking a few unsteady steps back to her own bed. He made no move to stop her, he simply rolled over and gathered the tangled sheets over himself. She lay down on her own bed, sliding under the covers, her mind still struggling to process any of what had just happened. Neither of them spoke; neither had said a word in quite some time. There was really only one thing left to say, and it came out of her mouth before she was aware of deciding to say it: "Elektra."

She heard him shift slightly on his bed. "What?"

"My name." She pulled the sheets up over her shoulder. "It's Elektra."

He didn't reply, and she said nothing more. He dropped off to sleep in a few minutes' time, and it was the deepest sleep he'd had in a while. He didn't dream a thing. Elektra, on the other hand, did.


	9. Chapter 9

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer:** Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

**Notes: **Several lines of dialogue lifted directly from DD Vol. 2 #37 by Brian Michael Bendis [I thought it'd be fun to extend the quick flashback scene] and direct allusions made to Punisher Vol. 5 #27 by Garth Ennis.

* * *

Elektra kept her eyes closed for a few moments after awakening, feeling so completely warm and comfortable that there seemed no reason to move at all, possibly ever. She could feel him lying beside her and it wasn't until he shifted around and pressed his leg to hers that she opened her eyes. The room was dimly lit, morning sunlight peeking in behind the drawn shade, and she saw that he was awake, his mouth curved in a sleepy smile, his clouded gaze somehow loving, as ever, upon her face. She grinned and untangled her arms from the sheets, stretching luxuriously. "You watching me sleep, Murdock?"

"In a manner of speaking." He slid forward on his pillow and kissed her, one hand warm on her cheek, his unshaven cheek tickling hers. "How'd you sleep?"

"Oh, very well, thanks," she replied, draping an arm over his shoulder. "And yourself?"

"Quite well. I was very worn out, you know." She giggled. "Some crazy woman almost killed me."

"Is that so?" She slid her other hand down his bare chest under the covers. "That sounds very enjoyable."

"It was, now you mention it," he said, grinning back. He kissed her again, this time sliding arms around her and rolling onto his back so she lay on top of him. Her long hair spilled down her back and over his arms. "Guess I'm crazy too."

"Undoubtedly." She lay her head against his chest, and he toyed with her hair with his left hand. "When do you have class today?" she asked, yawning.

"Not until this afternoon," he said, "so there's plenty of time to try and kill me again, if you so choose."

"Oh, really?" She raised her head and looked at him, laughing. "I thought you were all worn out from last night."

"Yeah, but crazy too, remember? No common sense. Haven't learned my lesson yet." He grabbed her playfully and rolled her right over onto her back, and she gave a little delighted shriek of surprise. He pounced, kissing her neck, and said "See? Unpredictable."

"Yeah, right!" she exclaimed, wriggling around uncontrollably as he tickled her throat. "I don't think so, somehow. I think you're all _talk._" On the last word, she slid her knee up between them and shoved him back so he fell onto his back on the bed, and she pinned him by the wrists as he laughed. "Spend all that time yapping and you never see anything coming."

"'See' it coming? Are you making fun of me?"

"Yeah, I am." She slid her toes up his calf, and he gave a groan of feigned annoyance. "And what are you gonna do about it?"

"What am I—OK, that's it." He flipped her back over and they wrestled around on the bed, and she gave a yelping laugh as he pulled her arm up and continued tickling her side, knowing the exact spot to touch. She slid a hand over his groin and tightened her grip slightly, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Quit tickling me or I'll do it, I swear," she told him in a mock-deadly voice.

"You wouldn't," he said, imitating her serious tone. "You're _way_ too fond of them."

"Oh-ho, that's what you think!" She gave him a slight pinch and he released her at once, raising both hands in surrender. "Yeah, that's more like it." She sprang backwards with a triumphant laugh, and smashed her elbow against the wall behind her. "Ow, fuck!" He burst out laughing, and she walloped him with a pillow. "Oh, shut up."

A faint knock came from the other side of the wall, and a weary voice said "You know, some of us actually have to _study_ in order to pass our classes, kids. Could we keep the bedroom shenanigans down?"

"Sorry, Foggy," Matt called, grinning at Elektra with a _yeah-right _expression. "You know he likes it," he added to her in a lowered voice. "That way he doesn't have to spring for pay-per-view porn."

"Oh, you're gross!" She lay back down beside him with a grin, nestling up against him again. She reached out lazily for her watch on the bedside table, and leapt up again almost immediately when she saw the time. "Oh, God, I've got to go."

"Aw, wait, no." Matt sat up too. "Already?"

"I've got to," she said, now trying to collect all of her clothes, which were strewn over his floor. "I have class at one, and if I don't get back in time, Stavros will come bursting in and Phoebe knows where I am and you know she can't keep a secret to save her life." Her roommate had always been decidedly intimidated by her bodyguard, and she tried to keep them apart wherever possible.

"You've got plenty of time. Come on, just stay a bit longer." He smoothed one arm over her side of the bed in an inviting fashion, and she couldn't resist a smile.

"Oh, don't tempt me. I'll come back tonight, I promise. You know I have to go."

"But, actually, you don't. And if you don't go, you can stay, which is much better than going. See how that works?"

"Wow," Elektra said, now scanning the room for her other earring. "If I haven't said it before, you're going to make one terrific lawyer. Those are some top-notch arguing skills, Red."

"My point exactly." He waited until her arms were full of her clothes before jumping half out of bed, grabbing a hold of her, making her shriek and drop the lot, and pulling her back onto the sheets beside him. "There we go, problem solved." Foggy knocked tiredly on the wall again. "Oh, can it," Matt called to him.

"You're such a troublemaker," she exclaimed, but she couldn't help laughing and rolling over to kiss him again. "I guess we'll just drop out of school and live in here forever, then? I'm sure they won't mind us living on campus anyway."

"That'll go over very well," he agreed. "Especially with your dad."

She shot him a look. "Yeah, he'll be just thrilled."

"Of course, that would mean you'd actually have to tell him I exist, though. You realize that, right?"

Elektra stopped smiling and rolled out of his arms, but didn't get up again. She sat up and leaned against the wall, looking down at him, still lying on his back. It always came back to this, every single time. As soon as things were perfect, the old argument would surface. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what I mean. It's not that I don't want to tell him. It's just...complicated. It's not you, it's anybody."

"And you really don't think I could win him over?" he shoots back. "Come on, I'm a good student, I'm going to have a good job once I graduate, I don't smoke, I go to church..." He stretched out a hand over his head and touched her leg, gently. "And I love you. Did I mention that part?"

"I know," she said softly. "It's not that. I keep telling you. It's just...it would change everything. I like things the way they are."

"You like hiding and telling your roommate to lie and sneaking around and—"

"Not _that_ part. I like _us._ I love us. If that's what it takes to be together, then, you know, then I'll do it."

"But it's been _months_," he protested. "I mean, maybe you're imagining things will be worse than they really will be. Maybe now that you're older, he'll be more understanding."

"You don't know him," she said darkly. "You have no idea what it took just to get him to let me enroll here and live in a dorm."

He gave a frustrated sigh. "So, what, it's just going to be like this for the rest of our lives? We'll just hide forever and your father will never know? How is that going to work?" She was silent for a long moment. "Come on, just tell me what you're thinking."

"That's a dangerous question," she said with a soft chuckle, but he didn't smile. She sighed too. "I don't know. I'm thinking...I'm thinking I should have known better. I should have predicted this ages ago, before I ever came here or met you or agreed to go out with you or any of it. And I'm thinking..." She traced circles on the sheet with one finger. "I'm scared of what will happen if I tell him and what he'll do, but I'm even more scared at the idea of losing you."

He didn't say anything, and she wasn't surprised; she didn't normally say things like that. But it was the truth; she had felt stuck for months, between her family and the man she loved, between honesty and safety. She waited for him to reply, and when he continued to be silent, she said "What are _you_ thinking, Matt?"

"Uh-oh," he said, a slight smile quirking the corners of his mouth, teasing her.

"Shut up, I'm serious."

"Honestly?" He slid over on the bed so that her long legs were on either side of him. "I was thinking that I would like to never have to leave this room. What do you think about that, 'Lektra?" He gave her a little smile. "We've got cable, ice cream, a bed. Let's just stay here."

Elektra just looked at him, and she believed that he really meant it, and she loved him for it. "That would be nice," she said softly, and she held his face in both of her hands, leaning down to kiss him upside-down. "That would be perfect."

They sat like that in silence for several minutes, listening to the faint rumble of cars on Amsterdam Avenue, before she slowly untangled herself from the sheets and stood up. "We need more ice cream," she said, trying to lighten the moment. "You said that was part of the deal, right?"

"Yeah," he said, but he didn't seem amused. She gathered her clothes up off of the floor again and began to dress, not looking at him, not wanting to see that look on his face. She knelt by her bag on the floor, making sure she'd remembered the right books for that afternoon's class, and said as she did so "I've just got Comparative Politics today, and then I have to meet with a professor about a paper, but I'm free tonight. I'll come back, I promise."

"No, you won't."

An unbidden chill spread up her back. "What?" She turned around. He was out of bed too now, standing on the opposite side of the room, dressed in his red outfit, pulling the cowl over his head.

"You won't come back. Not until you're ready." He wouldn't face her.

Elektra swallowed. Her throat suddenly felt dry. "W—what do you mean? Of course I'll—"

"You won't." He said it quite calmly, with no emotion. "Not after everything you've done."

"I didn't—" _Of course you did._ But he didn't understand, it wasn't like that, she only did what she had to. She wasn't like him, she had something in her that didn't make sense to him. But he _had_ to; she had to make him understand, or everything would be ruined. "Matt, please, listen to me—"

"I did," he said, still facing the window. "I listened to you all those years when you said you loved me, and I believed you. But you still left."

"I _had_ to." She realized she was trembling. "I wasn't the _same_, I wasn't—I wasn't anything, not anymore. Can't you understand?" Why wasn't she going to him? Why hadn't she moved? "I know what I've done, but it wasn't the same person, not the one you loved, and I had to..." She trailed off desperately. _Had to what?_ "I'm coming back," she said, wildly. "You don't believe it. I know you've given up, but I haven't, not on you, and...Matt, I'm _sorry..._"

At that, he finally turned, and appeared to consider her. "No," he said, after a moment, his voice still even. "You're not. But I think you will be, and then you'll come back."

"_No," _she said, and she gripped her head in both hands. He still did not understand. She wasn't sorry for _everything,_ not what he wanted her to be sorry for. It wasn't what she'd done after, it was for everything that had gone before that she'd ruined. She could not make good what never was, but what they'd had had been pure and perfect, and it was _still _good, underneath everything—

"He's never going to get it, you know."

Elektra looked up. Sands was sitting atop the low dresser, his arms folded, looking quite at ease. "You can stand there and cry all day if you want, but he's never going to hear it. Not what you really mean, anyway. So why bother?" He looked at her almost pityingly, something between amusement and disappointment in his eyes, and shook his head. "But you already know that, don't you. Just look at yourself."

She looked down, and was shocked to find herself dressed to work, red fabric streaming down her sides, her stomach and legs and arms and back and all of it, exposed. But this was wrong, they couldn't see her, not like this, not with her scars and all of it written all over her. She wrapped both arms around herself, trying to hide, but her hands felt strange and light, empty.

"Oh, that's right," Sands said, sliding off the dresser and holding a hand out to her. "You'll need this." In his hand was one long, gleaming, silver sai, handle out. She didn't want it, didn't want to hold the thing that had taken her life and given her life, but she saw herself reach out anyway and close her fingers over the cold steel.

"You know what you have to do," he said. It wasn't a threat or a dramatic pronouncement, it was simple a statement, an awareness of fact. He just stood there, watching her, and she looked frantically to Matt, still standing motionless by the window, and then back to Sands. She couldn't make them _both_ understand at the same time. "I can't," she said, although she didn't know exactly what she meant. Her voice sounded choked, and she couldn't seem to catch her breath, even though she wasn't moving. "I can't."

"Yes you can," Matt said abruptly. "You can change things." She looked past him out the window, and—there! She saw him, across the way, in the other building—it _wasn't_ too late.

"Poppa," she gasped, and she knew what this was, she knew the police were taking aim right now, thinking him one of the terrorists—an eye was peering through a scope, a finger tensing on a trigger—but she could stop it. This time she was on the other side, and she could stop it from happening and everything would be all right. And Drake would be there too (she couldn't see her, but she was sure of it), and that dart would never find its mark...yes, she could undo all of it, and then she wouldn't need to be sorry for a thing.

She finally took a step forward, towards Matt, towards her father and her old life—and she felt herself slip. "Watch your step," came Sands' cool voice to her left, and she looked down to see a dark hole widening before her, six feet by three, smelling of cold earth. _No! _She reeled back, trying to stay upright, but she fell, her hands desperately grabbing for the side of the grave, but it crumbled away in her hands. She reached out wildly for the rough gray stone above her, the one bearing her own name, but she was falling, six feet and then further down, and all the time, she could still hear Foggy knocking on the wall. Knocking—

* * *

Elektra shot upwards in bed with a gasp, tearing madly at the sheets tangled around her, and it was several long moments before she knew where she was. She looked frantically all around the dark room, and she saw Sands in the next bed, pushed up on his elbows, a politely intrigued look on his face.

"Good morning" he said breezily. "I think there might be someone at the door."

She stared at him in bewilderment for another second before leaping out of the bed. The air in the room felt cool after the heat of the bed, and she realized very suddenly that she was naked. Looking down at herself and around the wrecked room, she remembered, with another thrill of horror, why.

"Just—just a second," she croaked at the door, and then went straight for the bathroom. She turned on the light and stifled a gasp of shock as her own reflection blazed into view in the mirror in front of her. She seemed to be covered in marks—bruises decorated her torso, and there were livid finger marks on the side of her neck and face. Dried blood streaked down her arm and across her belly and—she looked closer—there was a distinct mark right over her scar, an ironic kiss with a bloodied mouth. Her own lips bore distinct bite marks, and there was just no explaining her hair, matted and tangled as it was with blood and sweat and God knew what else. She couldn't remember _ever_ looking like this after a fight—with _one person_, no less, and not even on a job—and with _him._

She hurriedly twisted the taps and thrust a shaking hand under the cold stream, streaking her wet fingers over her face and body, trying at the very least to wash the blood off. She reached for her bag on the counter, knocking it aside in her haste, and pulled out a few tubes and brushes, desperate to cover some of it before answering the door, because she knew very well who it was. She didn't know what half of these things were for, she'd just bought a set once to get a salesgirl to stop bothering her, but she swiped a flesh-colored sponge across her face a few times and it helped, a little. Catching sight of the back of the door in the mirror, she turned and grabbed the fluffy white robe that she'd so far ignored and pulled it over herself, tying the sash tightly. Then, getting an idea, she picked up one of the towels and clumsily wrapped her long, thick hair on top of her head.

Exiting the bathroom, she saw that Sands had gotten up too and was languidly pulling his jeans up over his hips. She was glad to see that he was at least as torn up as she was—and then immediately less glad, when she saw the marks on his back that most decidedly didn't come from the fighting portion of the evening. She took a few strides over to him and, getting a few inches from his face, snarled "You don't say _anything_. Not one word. I swear to God, don't give me a reason."

He just smiled serenely back at her, his contentment and his victory written all over his face. She marched away from him and, steadying herself, pulled open the door, careful to angle her body just so as to prevent him seeing the overturned coffee table, glass fragments and dried flowers strewn all over the floor inside the living room. "Sorry," she said briskly to Hansen, who was standing there with his two agents. "I was in the shower. After my run," she added, and immediately wished she hadn't.

He didn't look particularly annoyed at the delay, however. She thought his eyes lingered on her face, which undoubtedly still bore signs of trauma, for a few seconds longer than was necessary, but he just said "Of course. How are things progressing?"

"Fine," she replied, and as she spoke she saw Sands come into the room out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't stop herself from turning around to look—he was now pulling a t-shirt over his head and positively swaggering like a triumphant football captain. He didn't say a word, but he didn't need to. Elektra forced down the urge to charge across the room and grab him by the throat and turned back to Hansen. For a brief second, an odd expression crossed the man's face; he looked taken aback and something else she couldn't read—was it anger? Sands was certainly being no more obnoxious than usual; it seemed an strange response to his appearance. But then it was gone and he was back to looking smoothly arrogant, and she was sure she had imagined it.

"Good," he said, after a slightly-too-long pause. "How much more time do you imagine you will be needing?"

"None," she said, and she was almost surprised to hear herself say it. Then, making up her mind on the spot, added "I mean, not beyond today. I'm doing it tonight."

Hansen's eyebrows went up slightly, and she heard Sands give a snort of surprise or disdain behind her, and she knew it sounded foolish, deciding on the spur of the moment to complete a job, but she wanted to end this ridiculous affair once and for all as soon as possible. She looked defiantly back at him, and he replied "If you think it best. I trust you'll contact me once you're through to confirm and collect what's owed you?"

"Naturally," she said. He stood there for a second longer, and she waited for further questions, but none came. "Good day to you, then," he said, giving her a bow, and departed. She closed the door. He was a very odd person. She'd be just as glad to be shot of him as of Sands.

She turned around and he was still standing there, smirking at her. She couldn't even bear to look at him for more than a second; images of the previous evening's events seemed to flash in front of her eyes every other second. She very much wanted to shower and rid herself of...well, _everything, _but her desire to get away from him was greater, so she went straight back into the bedroom and began to dress.

"Where are you headed so speedily?" he asked, ambling back into the bedroom, apparently hearing her throwing her things around with unnecessary hurry. He dropped back onto his bed and stretched out on his side.

"For a run," she grunted, not looking at him. Her bag had spilled at some point the night before, and she shoved her things back into it. One of the neat stacks of money had slipped from its paper band, and bills scattered over the rug. She pushed handfuls into the bottom of the bag.

Sands pulled an expression of feigned confusion. "But I thought you already did that," he said, gesturing lazily to the door, referring to her lie to Hansen.

She stood up angrily, yanking her t-shirt over her sports bra. "Fuck you."

"Now I'm sure you've already _that,"_ he retorted, continuing to look heartily pleased with himself. She said nothing else, and he heard the door slam half a minute later, and he rolled onto his back, chuckling to himself.

Elektra flew out the front door, ignoring the concierge's perfunctory call of "good morning, ma'am" and set off at nearly a sprint, startling a few tourists by the door. She knew it was unwise to start off at such a speed without stretching first, but she had to put as much distance as humanly possible between herself and that room. Between herself and _him._

She could not recall ever being more stunned and furious with herself. She didn't know which part of it was the worst: the fact that she had let him get to her with the jibes about her father, or the fact that she'd wanted to kill him and he hadn't ended up dead, or the fact that she'd...well, all the rest of it. She didn't understand what had come over her. Why hadn't she just finished him on the spot when he'd started in calling her pathetic and a whore? She wouldn't have accepted that from anyone else, ever, not for a second, and yet she stood there, bickering with him like a pair of bitchy schoolgirls, until he'd given her that dramatic Telemundo slap, and she'd just snapped. That was another part that made it awful, that he'd drawn her out of her self-induced semi-coma, out of the calmness and the stillness she'd worked for months to achieve.

She tried to reason with herself. What was the difference if she'd left him alive? It wasn't like it was much of a life anyway. And she couldn't imagine he'd live much longer with or without her help, not the way he was going. And besides, the job would over by midnight and he'd be out of her life forever, and she could just forget he'd ever existed. The fact that he'd drawn her out and awakened the bloodlust within her—well, something was bound to do that anyway; now she could just try new methods of controlling herself. It wasn't like before where she was screwing up jobs and bursting into bars, begging for someone to fight her. It had just been one tiny indiscretion, the merest slip. Hell, she'd _earned_ that fight with all her good behavior. And really, she _could_ have killed him if she'd really wanted to. She had just allowed it to go on for fun. It would have been boring to just kill him outright. He deserved to feel her wrath, to _know_ what she could do even if she chose not to finish it. He'd gotten what he wanted, yes, but he'd paid for it dearly, and it wasn't as though he could lord it over her too much if they weren't even on the same continent, as she hoped not to be within 48 hours. So that was all fine. Not ideal, perhaps, but fine.

The sex, however, was a different matter. She still couldn't believe she had actually done it, actually held him and kissed him and felt him inside of her. _But it was just a fuck,_ she told herself, trying it out, the words oddly foreign in her mind. _Right? Don't regular people do that sort of thing all the time? Aren't there several TV programs dedicated to that very concept? We just wanted to and that's it, no big deal. _It was the wanting part she had trouble with; she could only remember the strength of the desire, not the parts. Had she liked where he put his hands? The taste of his mouth? The press of his hips against hers? Or was it beyond that—not about what he did, but what he was? What had made her change her mind and go from wanting to kill him to..._that? _Or had it always been that? _Well, who cares why, _she told herself firmly. _He chose to and I chose to and that's just how it is. Easy._

But that wasn't quite right, if she was being honest with herself. It had been easy, but that in itself was surprising. It was just _bizarre._ Not just because it was him, but because it was anyone. That just hadn't been a part of her life for a while now. It wasn't as though it _never_ happened, or that she didn't enjoy it, it just didn't seem to be very important or relevant. She and Castle had a go of it a few times and that had been fine enough, although she had never been quite sure what it was supposed to be. It had started so strangely, after all; she had just messed with him a bit because she was bored and wanted to see what he'd do. She'd been expecting a fight, and instead he'd asked her out. And for a while, it had been fun—he liked to come on jobs with her and watch her work, and most of the time that segued right into sex, which seemed a reasonably efficient method to her. He was exactly the same in bed as he was everywhere else: strong, rough, overly confident. Everything she did was physical, so it didn't seem so insane to include that sort of thing as well.

The other stuff was all right for a while too; he liked to hear her talk about her jobs too, and for a few weeks they traded shop talk with ease, even making each other laugh on occasion. But ultimately she realized they were too different—even after everything he'd done, he still held onto some bizarre notion of justice, and she could tell he didn't like what she did. He liked how she did it, but whenever the technical aspects, with the hiring and the paying and her utter lack of interest in the reasons behind her employment, came up in conversation, he always got surly and annoyed, as if what he did was far more noble. And besides, no matter what he said or didn't say, there was his past, his inescapable reasons for doing what he did. She didn't need his ghosts; she had enough of her own. When it ended between them, there was no fuss or big discussion; she just realized that she was bored again and he didn't seem remotely inclined to make her stay. In the end, she was forced to admit she'd probably just been with him because she knew it would annoy Matt, if he ever found out.

Matt...well, that was the final, inescapable piece. That dream had been more disturbing than any of it. She couldn't remember all of it; the details were fading with every passing minute, as dreams will do, but she remembered the panic gripping her as she awakened, that out-of-control feeling that she associated with the worst moments in her life. And she knew Matt had been there. It was the same old thing: she wanted him to understand why she'd left him and why she had changed, and he couldn't. Even though he'd been there for all of it, even though it was his goodness that had brought her back—

She shook her head, allowing herself to fall into a steadier jogging pace. There was no point in going over it again. There was a reason she hadn't allowed herself to sleep like that in years, and now she was just even more sure it was a good idea. Those memories would always been with her, but she could at least stop them from taking over. It always came back to Matt in the end. She remembered that day, where they'd lain in bed and he'd said he never wanted to leave. He'd mentioned it, that very conversation, the last time she saw him in New York, when she'd believed Natasha's lie and dropped everything to see him. _That's what did it,_ she realized, although she hadn't remembered it until now. _That's what made me run that day._ And all over again, she had to wonder what would have happened if she'd stayed. Would things be different if she'd stayed on that rooftop and listened to him, and loved him again...? He met Milla only a few weeks later, from what she'd heard. _Maybe I could have changed that. And I certainly wouldn't be in _this _predicament._

But there was no point, she realized. What had she told Matt that day? "The only death you can take responsibility for is one you commit with your own hand." And wasn't that true? She hadn't killed her father, or Drake, or Matt's father (and for all he liked to pretend, the two of them were exactly the same in that respect; it had changed him as much as it had changed her), and she couldn't change any of it. It was the past, and the past didn't matter. The past only damaged the present and the future. _Even if I _had_ stayed, it would have been the same thing all over again. Him disapproving, trying to change me, wanting me to be good again while barely managing it himself... _He was still a fucking hypocrite, she reminded herself angrily, still a unstable head case who wavered between brazenly defiant and pathetically insecure, not the same boy she'd fallen in love with. And she wasn't the same either, so there was no point in pretending it could ever make sense between them. She was no longer the girl who laughed easily, who loved, who more than once spent the entire day in bed with the one she wanted.

Yes, all in all, _that_ was the most surprising part. It wasn't as though there had just been a fleeting moment when she'd broken her own rules. Regret, she realized, was usually quick, a lightning-bolt truth. 'I regret _that_, that one thing, easily definable and compact.' But it hadn't been. It had been long, and drawn out, and she had to admit that every single second of it had happened. She had kissed him, hard, felt his hands on her, been naked with him, clung onto him and moved against him and then—well. She had enjoyed it, a lot. She had shouted _no _and pushed at him at first, and now she was furious and embarrassed with herself, but _physically..._that was quite another matter. That was what she couldn't figure out. She simply hadn't thought that was _possible_ anymore, not after everything her body had been through. She'd noticed changes in her body since her resurrection (_that's what it was, after all, you might as well admit it)_: everything had seemed a bit dulled. She didn't feel temperature or pain as acutely, and nothing tasted or smelled like much, really. She hadn't mourned the losses or questioned them, she'd just assumed that was part of it. It was, she had reasoned, rather like buying a secondhand car—it was perfectly reasonable to expect the wheels and the engine and the lights to work, but it was asking a bit much for power windows and a 3-CD changer. And, of course, it hadn't seemed very important until Castle, and then there was that and it was good enough, she thought, and hadn't expected it to be any different.

But with Sands...well, Sands was different. He was slower, more thorough. He didn't fuck the way he fought. When they had been battling, before he'd kissed her against the wall, he'd been quick and nasty, with no finesse, just trying to get things finished, without any concern for how it happened, quite unlike her own style. Once they were in bed, though, he was in no rush, taking his time, savoring it. And somehow, she didn't think it had anything to do with her. He didn't care whether or not she enjoyed herself; that was her business. And she had responded in kind, doing just what sheliked, and she hadn't even known that she _knew_ what she liked. What he wanted was to make it last and touch her everywhere and all of that, so that is what he has done. _He_ had understood that concept about wanting and taking before she had, it seemed. That, too, was annoying. But none of it mattered, she reminded herself over and over as she began her fourth lap around the hotel grounds. In a few hours, it would all be over.

* * *

Sands lay on his back on the bed in the hotel room, listening to her hurried footsteps departing, very much pleased with himself. He could tell how flustered she was as she'd run around the room and dealt with Hansen, and then she couldn't get away from him fast enough. Well, it wasn't the first time a bedmate of his had had morning-after regrets, although it was usually inspired by a considerable helping of Jose Cuervo. She didn't even have that to use as an excuse.

Really, if he thought about it, it was really one of his best scores in a long time. He had thought that little slap might annoy her, but he had never predicted such a thoroughly enjoyable reaction. She was an amazing fighter; he was sure she had been holding back, which he found both disappointing and exciting. She had really meant it; he was sure she really intended to kill him, as did he with her, but the actual outcome had been a lot more satisfactory. He knew he had been angry with her, furious for her trick and her jibes about his life and his mistakes, but he couldn't quite remember how it felt, being pissed at her. He couldn't imagine feeling anything other than he felt right now, impressed and amused and fairly knackered, really. He hadn't quite planned to kiss her, either, but it seemed like the thing to do in the moment, and he knew she would give in to him, eventually. They always did. Nothing had really changed after all.

And, of course, it wasn't just the exceptional prologue that had made it such a remarkable experience—she really was a truly sensational lay, even better than he'd expected. Energy, stamina, that lithe, tight. athletic body, legs that went for days, long, thick hair, firm, sizable breasts (real, for once!), strong, slim fingers and that heavenly snatch—well, it had been a while since he'd had anything quite so fine. It was only fitting that he'd had to work for a little, really. It wouldn't have been as much fun if she'd given up too quickly. He had known she would, to be sure, but it was the process that made things interesting.

She hadn't been _entirely_ predictable, however. At the beginning, when they had been up against the wall, he had thought she was surrendering herself entirely to him, letting him do whatever he wanted, and for a moment he had been a trifle disappointed that she wasn't continuing to challenge him, but then she'd grabbed him and thrown him on the table and it became a different kind of battle, not for death, but pleasure. Not many of them had done that. And then, of course, there was the thing she did with her _tongue... _His hand drifted unconsciously to the spot where her mouth had been, the place he hadn't even touched himself, but his fingers trembled and stopped against his cheek. He had to give her credit; he had thought he knew every possible thing that could be done with the human tongue, and he hadn't thought of that one. The way she had just _grabbed_ him and...well. She hadn't flinched like the others, not once. Her eyes had been open, he had felt the press of her fingers against the scars on his arms, legs, chest, everywhere (which was fitting, he realized, once he had touched her—he was fairly sure he had felt a mark on her back to match the one on her front, and somehow he understood, without really knowing, what that meant). No, she definitely wasn't like any of the others. She certainly wasn't like Eva had been, that was for sure. She had been into the whole performance of the thing: outfits, props, role-playing, all of it. And for a while that had been entertaining enough, but after a while it got a bit boring; eventually he just wanted to get to the good part and leave it at that. She was quite into the theatrics of everything, actually, and at first he'd found that intriguing, as he too had a flair for details and the production of things. Which made it even more amazing to realize that the whole time, probably, she was just working towards her big finish, and he hadn't known a thing. Elektra, on the other hand, had gotten right down to it with no frills, matching him, surprising him. She was really something.

_Elektra. _That was another fun piece he hadn't bargained on; he had almost forgotten that he didn't know her first name, and he never would have guessed she'd just offer that up, too. _And I couldn't have picked a better one myself. _He said it quietly to the empty room, trying out the taste of it. _E-lek-tra. _Elektra Natchios. It suited her perfectly. The misleading softness of the _el, _then the bite of the _k, _the abrupt _-tra_ at the end and then the sexual, sibilant _Natchios. _Perfect. ...And, as he thought about it, slightly familiar. Where had he heard it before? Something about the rhythm of it stirred something in his mind; he seemed to remember the sound of it from a while ago. He frowned slightly, trying to remember, but nothing came. He had noticed that sometimes memories from before Mexico slipped away from him, flickering in and out, as if his brain had had to reprogram after everything that had happened. Which was fine with him; the past was not something he had any use for. He knew he shouldn't even bother comparing the two women; they were as different as people could be and besides, Eva was gone.

And that was another thing. What in the world had her little speech to him been about? Something about the Mexico files being edited, and Hansen being in on the whole thing, and Hansen having killed Eva...that was all very strange. She had clearly gotten some very bad information, but from where? Hansen? He knew the truth, or at least a lot of it. Had he told her some warped version of Sands' story that made him look like some sort of ultimate badass? Or had she just seen something odd on the computers and drawn her own conclusion? And then there was that bit about him talking in his sleep—well, that was disturbing to hear, although not surprising. He hadn't spent the night with anyone since Mexico, and while his dreams were always unclear and hard to remember, he had long ago guessed about their subject, and had wondered whether any of it spread beyond the inside of his mind as he slept. He certainly had a physical enough reaction with that fucking drill the other day, anyway.

It didn't matter, of course, what she thought about him and about Eva and all of that, although he had to admit it was jarring to hear her speak Eva's name. There was nothing she could do about any of it, and soon they'd be out of each others' lives forever anyway. And he had to admit he was slightly sorry about that—he was having a much better time with her than he thought he would; they sparred quite impressively, both verbally and otherwise, and although she was a bit too impressed with herself and lacked the ideal deductive reasoning skills, apparently, she was still wildly talented and clever. He had thought her illogical before, but now he had to admit her technique was fairly efficient: the fact that she'd managed to hack the computer system that quickly was nothing to sneeze at. He now appreciated even more the irony of his being thrown together with a girl like her; she was something like a new and improved version of Eva, just as sexy and deadly and ruthless, but far more sensible and professional and skilled. And, of course, far less likely to massively fuck him over, as she worked for herself, had more money than God all by herself and didn't care enough about him to try. _The perfect woman, _he thought for at least the second time in three days, chuckling to himself. He had a sudden, amusing vision of himself and Elektra running off with the twenty million pesos and giving the finger to the CIA and all of them—it was the same scenario he'd imagined several months ago, although one of the roles had been most notably recast. It would be even better now, since he was their golden child, their brave, tragic credit to the force. And it would work as a lovely last piece of revenge against Eva—she would have hated the idea of another woman getting the riches he'd promised to her, especially since she always got so pissy at the mention of his other sexual exploits. Which was a strange thing, because he'd never bothered to hide it or lie about it. Elektra wouldn't mind in the least. They could travel the world, bedding whomever they liked; she would work, he would...drink. What a lovely life it would be.

He allowed himself a few moments of this bizarre daydream, but then found himself returning to everything she had said—why _had_ Hansen deleted the files? To cover up for him and prevent anyone finding out about everything else in Mexico and to keep him, Sands, looking like a hero? He didn't think so, somehow, in as much as he was actively blackmailing him. And besides, there was nothing questionable _in_ his file. They had all swallowed his half-hearted lies and no one had questioned a thing; it was only because Hansen had done some digging around, apparently, and was dirty himself, that he'd managed to find out the truth. Deleting a report that proclaimed his bravery, the 'story' of which everyone already knew, seemed a pointless thing to do. And of _course_ there weren't any details about Eva's death in the files; there never had been—she wasn't CIA, and no one had known that they were involved. Her death on the day of the botched coup, as far as they knew, was completely unrelated to what happened to him, except perhaps for the fact that she could have been considered a victim of the violence in the city that day. The way that Elektra had said "someone deleted her files" meant that she had searched for them, which meant she had made quite a leap regarding the name he was apparently muttering in his sleep, and he couldn't work out how she might have done so. Did she simply fancy herself an amateur detective as well as an assassin? Or was there more going on that no one had seen fit to tell him?

* * *

Elektra did several more laps around the hotel, still lost in her thoughts, stopping only when she felt ready to collapse. She hadn't stretched, after all, and realized that she hadn't eaten in nearly 24 hours. She usually had to remind herself to do things like that, things that were good for her, but even so, it had been a while since she had been truly hungry. She went back inside the hotel and crossed the lobby and was just about to push the button for the elevator when she saw the sign for the stairs a few yards away. She was worn out, but she only had to get to the eighth floor; a little extra effort wouldn't hurt. She had never been able to resist challenging herself just a bit more. Besides, she didn't quite feel she'd worked off her full penance for the insanity of the previous night.

She pushed open the door and set off up the stairs, listening to the echo of her own breath in the enclosed space. As much as she tried to make herself focus on what she was doing and plan how she was going to carry off the hit later that night, her mind kept wandering back to the more rudimentary details of the previous night, with the result that she pushed open the door onto the wrong floor of the hotel and it was several long seconds before she understood why all of the numbers on the doors began with sevens instead of eights. Inwardly cursing her own uncharacteristic absentmindedness, she turned around to go back through the door and climb the last flight when a voice behind her made her turn.

"Yes, of course, sir, I understand," someone was saying, and she saw a young man back into the hallway from one of the rooms, dressed in the vest and bow tie of a waiter and holding a tray. "I understand. Very sorry, sir." An indistinct voice said something in reply, and the door slammed. The man immediately dropped his courteous demeanor and raised his middle finger at the door with a scowl, balancing the tray on his other hand. "What an asshole," he said, his voice lowered, walking towards a chambermaid standing by a cart several yards away. She gave him a sympathetic grimace. Neither of them noticed Elektra, standing motionless in the shadowy end of the hallway.

"I know," the maid said, shaking her head. "The other day he was bitching that the towels weren't a high enough thread count."

"He's been here three days and every morning there's something wrong with the food, too," the waiter told her. He removed the lid from the plate on the tray and showed her. "Today it's that the two-minute eggs look more like three-minute eggs. Fucker's tie costs more than I make in a year, and he's giving me shit."

"Major dickhead spook," she agreed. "Don't those guys usually stay in more expensive places?"

"You'd think so." The man rolled his eyes and walked over to the elevator, saying "I'd better take this down. See you later."

"Yeah, see ya." The maid turned towards the door three away from the one out of which the waiter had just exited, knocked, and entered after listening for a few seconds. Elektra was left alone in the quiet hallway, not moving, her mind racing from what she had just heard.

_Spook,_ she'd called him. She'd called Sands the same thing the other day. And someone who worked in a hotel right near the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency would surely know that it was a word for a government agent. And the way in which the waiter and the maid had described the person in question sounded very much like an agent of her acquaintance. _But it couldn't be..._

Checking to make sure the coast was clear, she darted forward to the door where the waiter had been, seeing the brass number "761" nailed to the wood. She pressed her ear carefully to the door and listened, and after a few moments, was shocked to realize she was right; the voice from inside was none other than Hansen's.

"...tomorrow morning, I'll...statement, of course." Frustrated, she leaned harder against the door; someone in a nearby room had the volume on their television turned up and she could only hear pieces of what he was saying. "...will be temporary direc...easy to buy off." He was sounding even more smug than usual, probably because she had said she'd be carrying out the hit that night, she thought. His victory was in sight. That wasn't hard to believe. But she was thoroughly astonished that he would be so stupid as to get himself a room in the same hotel where he was housing the assassin he had hired. It was one of the most amateurish things she had ever seen a client do; he was practically drawing a road map for his opponents to connect him with the crime. _And why didn't he tell me?_ All that nonsense with morning meetings and forcing her to room with Sands, and he didn't mention that he'd be just an elevator ride away? Something was definitely wrong. She listened harder.

"...definitely think she'll do it?" she heard a different voice say, and she was momentarily confused until she realized it must have been one of the two agents he always had with him; it hadn't dawned on her that they had never spoken in front of her. He was sitting closer to the door, apparently, and she could hear him a bit more clearly. "She won't just let him go?"

Elektra heard footsteps, and Hansen's voice going in and out like a radio; he was moving around the room. "I told you," he said, and the condescension in his voice was audible even through the door. "She never..." (he moved farther away) "...loose ends...careful. Can't...more mistakes." She felt her hand tighten angrily on the doorknob. _More_ mistakes? Just what else did he have on her? _And 'let him go'? He thinks I'll just change my mind on McKean and have an attack of conscience or something?_ She had once failed to follow through on a job, and had paid for it most dearly. It would never happen again, and the implication was insulting.

A family came out of a room down the hall, chattering noisily, and she quickly jumped back from the door and braced one hand against the wall, pulling her ankle up behind her with the other, pretending to stretch. They barely spared her a glance as they got into the elevator and disappeared, and she waited until the lighted numbers over the door showed that they were three floors down before leaning back up against the door in time to hear one of the agents saying "...last night. And from...looked that way."

"Well, the job's not done yet," Hansen snapped, and this time she caught every word, because his voice was rising in annoyance. He sounded a lot less suave than usual. "It wouldn't make sense to get rid of him now, not until she's sure she doesn't need him anymore." Elektra frowned. _But he _is_ the job._

The other agent was evidently abashed, because she could hardly hear his muttered reply. "...original deal," was all she heard. She heard Hansen's snide laugh.

"That doesn't matter," she heard him say smoothly. He moved away again and faded out completely, and she heard the water running briefly. "...known for it," he was saying when he came back into range. "She wants to. It's obvious. Look at that." There was a silence while they apparently regarded the same object, whatever it was. "That was just a taste. She'll finish it."

"And you're really going to wait with the second half if she doesn't?" The man closest to the door was speaking again, sounding doubtful. "Because she's definitely not going to like that."

"I don't care what that bitch likes," Hansen retorted. "If she doesn't do him, then she's not worth the first half anyway. He obviously knows too much. That should be enough, she doesn't need to know the rest."

"She'll...separate job." Now it was the other agent, farther away. "Won't...being tricked. And after...even harder to get...escape?"

"She'll like it if she wants the rest of it," Hansen shot back. "Does she really think I don't know she's getting four times her usual rate for a government job? Just half would be way more than enough McKean and that cocksucker combined. After that, the rest will be easy."

Elektra stood there, not moving, blood roaring in her ears as she listened, piecing it all together. There could be no mistaking to whom he was referring now. _If she wants the rest of it... _The reluctant serenity she'd forced upon herself during the run was disappearing like water down a drain, and her fury was building, fast as the night before. She stood there for a second, irresolute, and then raised a fist and knocked calmly on the door. The voices within stopped abruptly, and there was a pause before someone got up and moved towards the door. "Yeah?" a voice demanded.

"Room service," she replied, making her voice light and airy. She heard the locks turning, and the door opened. "Well, it's about t—" One of the two agents was standing there, and stopped dead when he saw her. Over his shoulder, Hansen was holding the remote in his hand, his eyes on the TV, and he only looked up once the silence stretched into several seconds. His eyes met hers, and she cocked an eyebrow dangerously, saying nothing.

There was another split second where Elektra stared at Hansen, the agent at the door stared at Elektra, the agent frozen in an absurd half-standing position on the couch looked quickly between Hansen and Elektra in panic, and Hansen looked at no one, apparently appraising the moment internally. Then everyone moved at once, or so it seemed: the one at the door turned quickly towards Hansen, and Elektra shoved him out of her way, into the wall. The other agent made a leap for her, but she laid him out cold with a right hook and he reeled back onto the couch. In half a second she was across the room and upon Hansen, pinning him to the far wall by the throat.

"'If she wants the rest of it'?" was all she said, her voice low. Close to, she could see that his eyes were a cold blue, almost gray. "Now, I think you know that's not how this works."

She heard an unmistakable click behind her right ear, and when she moved her head a millimeter she felt something hard press against the back of her skull. She turned her head to see the agent she'd punched pointing his Glock straight between her eyes. She gave him a defiant glare over her shoulder. _Just try it._

Hansen, who had barely reacted as she'd burst into the room, raised a hand slightly and made a lowering gesture. "Down," he said firmly, when the agent didn't move. "And close the door," he added to the other man, who was still hovering uncertainly on the other side of the room. "Let's all just calm down here, shall we?"

"No, let's shan't," Elektra snarled, tightening her grip on the front of his jacket. "Just what the _fuck_ do you think you're pulling?"

"That depends," he said evenly, looking straight back at her. "How much did you hear?"

"Do not screw with me," she hissed, pointing a finger into his face. "_Don't_. You really think you're going to rip me off and get away with it? We had a deal, you son of a bitch. One mark, one price. Half up front, half afterwards. That's _it._" When Hansen said nothing, she yanked him forward and then slammed him back against the wall. "Are we having a communication problem?"

"Not at all," he said, wincing slightly. "I merely thought you had a policy about witnesses, that's all." His oily manner was securely back in place at her appearance; he seemed almost glad to see her. "I assumed that, once the job was finished, you would want to tie up all loose ends and—"

"You're a liar," she interrupted. "You didn't think that. You thought I was running some sort of two-for-one deal, and thought you could get me to take care of Sands without paying for it." He didn't react, and she knew for sure that she was right. "And if I didn't, you were going to withhold the rest of my money, or—what, fill up my file with all sorts of little stories and turn me in?" He still said nothing, merely looked at her. His eyes roamed over her face again, and she realized she was giving him a close look at the marks on her face, especially the bites on her lips. She also noticed the unpleasant similarity in their position to the way Sands had pressed against her on the wall the night before. She released him with a snort. "You know what? Fuck this," she said, and took a step back. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the agent on her right move, and she whipped her head around to face him, but he had only been inching slowly towards the fallen remote control. She just had time to register the old black-and-white movie playing silently on the screen before it was switched off. She shot him a contemptuous look. _Well, _now_ I think you're a consummate professional._ "I don't need this. You knew the rules of how this worked. I'm done. Keep your fucking money. Do McKean yourself, and Sands. This isn't how it's done." She raised her hands in a gesture of finality, and took a step towards the door.

"You don't want to do that, Miss Natchios," Hansen said. She looked back at him. He was straightening his lapels, and he looked directly at her as he spoke. "There's no reason we can't work this out."

"I don't need this," she repeatedly sharply, but she didn't move. She had never had a job as convoluted as this in her entire career, but she'd also never walked out of a job in the middle. (Except for that one.) Dignity and common sense were telling her to walk out the door, but somehow, she couldn't, not even him, not even this job. She heard Sands in her head: _"Without those little ninja skills of yours, you'd be nothing." _It sickened her to realize that he was right. Her job was everything. She found she couldn't move.

He noticed her hesitation, of course, and gave a small, cold smile. "No," he agreed. "I expect you don't. But I think we can come to an understanding. If you'll—"

"An understanding?" she repeated. "That would need to start with some explanations. From you. Like why the hell you're in this room, for starters."

He shrugged. "I needed to keep an eye on you both," he said matter-of-factly. "I like to oversee jobs I've hired others to do. It's just prudent."

"It's insane," she corrected. "You really don't think someone's going to see you? Or find out later? Somebody's going to put it all together once the job's done. You've made it easy."

"You seem to be forgetting who will be in charge once McKean is taken care of, Miss Natchios," he replied, and she heard the same petulant note she'd heard from him in the hallway when his authority was threatened. "I did consider that my role in this affair would have to be kept rather quiet."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "Anyone could get their hands on the guest lists, the prints from this room, the security tapes from the lobby, from the elevators..." She shook her head in disgust. "There's no way you're getting away with this."

"We'll just have to let that be my problem," he said coolly. "You'll be long gone. It does not concern you." She narrowed her eyes, not satisfied with that answer, but it was true enough.

"Why do you want Sands dead?" she threw at him next. "And don't give me that 'loose ends' bullshit. You could have killed him any time before now, and you can kill him any time after now. You didn't need him with me on this job. Why did you really involve him, and why is it so important that it's a hit?"

He looked at her more shrewdly, evidently displeased that she'd made the distinction. Then he shook his head. "You really think he's the sort of person who should be left alive?"

"That's not an answer."

He looked away from her and chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment before answering. "Everyone thinks he's a such a brave saint now," he said finally, more to himself than to her. "The model agent. No one has any idea of the things he's done."

Elektra stared. "But...you did that," she said, confused. "You covered up for him. You're blackmailing him. Why..."

He continued speaking as though he hadn't heard her. "And the things he's done...he doesn't deserve a simple death. It has to be fitting."

"Are you kidding me with this?" she asked, incredulous. "You're objecting to him on moral grounds?_ You_? Are you forgetting why I'm standing here?" He didn't respond. "So...so you've helped build him up as a hero, just so you can tear it all down later and reveal everything you hid?"

"Don't you see?" He turned to her finally, and there was an expression on his face she hadn't yet seen there. There was a hint of wildness in his eyes, and a hunger that she hadn't thought he possessed. "All he has left now is his name. Ruin the last piece, and he..." He raised a hand in a dismissive gesture. "He ceases to exist. It's like he never mattered. For a little while it'll be a scandal, perhaps, and then nothing, ever again."

She watched him, a feeling of strong unease overtaking her fury. "You don't just want him dead," she realized aloud. "You want to destroy him."

"I suppose you could say that, yes." The glint in his eye was completely incongruous with the measured calm of his voice, which made the whole thing all the more disarming. "Do you have an objection to that?"

"I—it's not that—" She shook her head distractedly. "What exactly did he do that deserves all this? I thought his plans in Mexico failed. The coup didn't come off, did it? I know he's insane," (although this was not true; she didn't think she'd ever known anyone as aware of and understanding of reality as he was) "but what he does...I mean, it can't be much worse than what _you_ do."

He looked at her quickly. "It's not the same," he snapped. He cleared his throat, and then added, a bit more calmly, "I wasn't under the impression you were interested in the reasons behind these things."

"I wasn't under the impression that I did freebies," she shot back. "So you'll answer what I want to know if you expect me to stay here another second. What's your issue with him?" She wasn't sure why she needed to know so badly. It was possibly simply because didn't want to tell her.

He gave her something between a glare and a smile. "It will be fitting," he said again, "for him to be killed by a beautiful woman whom he's been made to trust. And then, as I said, once it's done, I—"

"Wait just a second," she interrupted, taking a step back towards him, a hand extended. "A woman who—you..." She trailed off, now even more bewildered than ever. "This is about Eva?"

"Excuse me?" he said sharply, and she realized she shouldn't have used her first name; it was too familiar. But the look on his face, once again, told her she was right. She saw the other agents exchanging a look out of the corner of her eye.

"But...but you killed her," Elektra faltered. "She was his...his..." She didn't know how to finish it. "I thought you were just finishing what you...what you started."

There was no trace of arrogance or amusement in his face anymore. He frankly stared at her, his brow contracted, eyes steely. "What _I _started?" he repeated, sounding angry. "I—I assure you, this is about what _he's_ done." She had never heard him stammer before. He didn't seem to be able to stop himself from continuing. "He has to pay for it. She already gave him some of what he deserved. And I _am_ going to finish it."

"Pay...pay for it?" she repeated stupidly. Silence spiraled uncomfortably as she looked away, staring at the blank TV, the last pieces finally clunking into place in her mind. She suppressed a sharp intake of breath. She had been wrong. She'd had it entirely backwards. "You _didn't_ kill her," she said to Hansen. "He did. He did it, because _she_ betrayed _him_. She was the one who..." She ran a hand distractedly through her unclean hair. "You were...you were with her, and she was with him too, and..." She looked at him, astonished.

"She met him on an assignment," he said, and he was talking more to himself again. "But she wasn't supposed to..." He shook his head jerkily. "She should have known what he'd do."

"She was working with Barillo?"

"Of course," he said, like a reflex, looking as taken aback as she felt that she was this far behind. "She was..." He stopped himself. "That's why she called herself that."

"Called herself what?" she demanded, but before he could answer, she realized she already knew. _Ajedrez. Because he was the chess master. _She and Sands had discussed it not two days previously. That had been Barillo's self-promoted nickname, and she, Eva, had chosen it for her pseudonym. _Ajedrez _was "chess" in Spanish. She hadn't realized it until now. She could hear Sands' voice in head again, laughing low. "Your Spanish is terrible." The answers had been right in front of her all the time,a and she hadn't seen. Sands wasn't having nightmares about the death of his lover, he was having nightmares about the woman who betrayed him, who attacked him, who took his eyes. She, Elektra, had been insane to think he'd ever experience anyone else's pain. It was all his own. She _was_ the last thing he ever saw, but not as she lay dying—as she stood over him, her expression callous and amused, just like in the photo in her file. Elektra could see it in her mind as if she had been there. As if she'd dreamed about it too.

"And you covered it all up," she said, finding her voice again. "You've known all along that he killed her, but you deleted the files and her files and all of it so you could punish him on your own later."

He gave something between a shrug and a nod. "Our justice system is flawed" was all he said by way of a confirmation.

"So...what, this was all a front? All of it? Hiring me for McKean, that was just to get at _Sands_? Just for the poetry of it?" Revenge was one thing, but this was farther than she'd seen anyone be willing to go.

"Of course not," he retorted, and despite her disbelief and anger, she couldn't help but be mildly impressed at how quickly he could snap back to haughtiness after discussing the cold-blooded murder of his girlfriend (or whatever she was) by the man he now sought to destroy. "We want McKean out of the picture just as much as we said we did. I simply thought you would want to get rid of Sands as well at the end, since he was in on it and _not_ in on the paying part. He's just another variable."

She raised her eyebrows. That sounded almost like honesty, although she hadn't missed the shift from 'we' to 'I.' "That would be a perfectly lovely plan, if it wasn't for that 'if she wants the rest of it' part. If I didn't do it on my own, that was supposed to be my motivation? I'm still not seeing why I shouldn't walk out of here. You know that's not how it works. There's a reason they call it 'contract killing.' You don't do your part, I don't do mine."

"Hmm." He considered her for a few moments. "We'll double it, then."

"We'll—what?" she said, thrown. "What do you mean?"

"Your fee. We're adding another mark, so we'll double it."

She gaped at him. "One minute you're trying to snow me for half the price, and now you're offering to double it? And pay the same for a government head as a random agent?" Nothing about it made sense. He was going completely off-book, and that wasn't something she ever liked in a client.

He folded his arms and shrugged again. "I'm a big enough person to admit when I've been outdone. I thought you'd take care of him on your own and was planning to, as you said, snow you if you didn't, and you found out about it on your own. I still want it done. Now it's a second, separate job. Therefore, I will pay more for it."

"This isn't how it's done," she said again. "Why should I believe you?"

"You've never had a client change the plan late in the game?" he asked shrewdly. "If you need more time, you can of course have as much as you need."

"I don't need more time," she said brusquely. "It's not about time, or money."

"Of course it's about money," he said evenly, and she shot him a deadly look. "This is business, isn't it? We're negotiating a business transaction. You have no reasons to want to keep him alive, do you? And you know it's good sense, in fact, to get rid of him."

She scowled at him, not much appreciating being told what she knew. "It's not about business with you. This is personal. You want him dead because he slept with your girl. And he killed her. Don't pretend this is about wanting me to do a tidy job. This is just regular old revenge."

His eyes flashed angrily for a moment at the mention of Eva, but the moment passed and he said "My reasons for hiring you are irrelevant. But that's what I've done, and what I'm doing now. I'm offering to hire you. Are you accepting?"

She watched him for a long moment, turning it all over in her mind. None of this was right. There was a way things were supposed to be done, a neatness, a...dignity, even. It _was_ business, and it wasn't supposed to be this messy. All of it had been wrong from the start: having his goons jump her to 'test' her on the way into the first meeting, throwing Sands into the mix, forcing them to room together, and now this last-minute rope-a-dope with a secret second job built into the first. It was like a badly-written spy novel, not a professional high-level government hit. Walking away would prove that she had standards and couldn't be tempted away from her rules and her demands by a few extra bucks. It would mean she still dictated the rules of how she did her job. She was no one's whore. But walking away would also make it look as though there was something she _couldn't_ do, not just wouldn't. Changing the plan at the last minute meant instability, which meant risk. But what was the risk to the most dangerous woman in the world? She had nothing to fear, did she? She could change the plan, she could do it last-minute, half-prepared with her eyes closed and her hands tied behind her back and they still couldn't touch her, not with a thousand men on the case, because she was the best. Isn't that what it said?

Either way, he had been right. Her job was all she was. One way, she was walking away for the first time in order to prove the integrity and the meaning of what she did. Prove it to everyone else, prove it to herself, prove it to _him,_ she didn't know. The other, she was taking yet one more step to letting it define her; she was the best, and nothing else. There was no choice, really. Not following through on this job would mean changing everything. She had to save the one thing that told her who she was. She had known it all along; she was sure she had known what her response would be as soon as she had realized what Hansen wanted. She looked at him steadily, and nodded.

He smiled at her, a wide, cruel grin that showed her, more than anything else had so far, the true depth of his hatred. "Good," he said. "And as I said, it must be fitting. Do have a seat." He gestured to the couch. "I'd like to tell you what I want."

* * *

Sands was seated on the couch in their room when she returned, with the TV on and his feet up on the edge of the coffee table, which was still lying on its side. "Hi, hi, hi there," he greeted her in a pleasant voice. "You've been a while."

She said nothing and stalked past him into the bedroom, where she reached for her bag and pulled out a packet of energy gel with slightly shaking hands, having turned down Hansen's offer of room-service breakfast with a wordless sneer. She mechanically ripped it open and ate some with one finger, but pulled a face; it tasted disgusting. Could such things go bad? She flipped the foil over in her hand, looking for an expiration date, having never thought to before, but couldn't find any such markings. She forced the rest of it down anyway, knowing she needed it, especially considering what she had planned.

She stepped into a hot shower a few minutes later and took her time, for once, as if she could wash away everything that had happened within the last twelve hours. She thought about the approaching night, too, and by the time she shut off the water and climbed out, she knew how she was going to do it. Now it was just a matter of starting. She went into the bedroom and threw her towel aside (_what did it matter, now, really?_) and dressed, unpacking and repacking everything she had with her, except for what she would need for that night. It was a comfort, in a way, to adhere to her routine, her last-day preparations and habits that made everything so neat and easy, because she knew it soon wouldn't be. Then she walked into the living room where Sands still sat.

"Listen," she said, and to her surprise, he did, turning towards her with an expectant expression. "I'm doing it tonight, like I told him. That means I've got to clean everything now."

He nodded. "You've got your work cut out for you," he said, sounding amused, indicating the mess in both rooms. "I suppose we were a tad foolhardy, weren't we."

"That means you have to get out," she said, as though he hadn't spoken. "I can't have you in here touching everything I've just wiped off and—and getting in my way."

He raised his eyebrows. "You mean you don't want my help?" he asked. "I thought it'd be a little team activity. We could sing cleaning songs and everything."

"I don't need you," she said, more forcefully than she had intended. "You'll just get in the way. I have to do it myself."

"If I had a dollar for every time a woman's said that to me..." He smirked. "What about tonight? Are you going to need a hand there? Maybe we could do that little stand-outside-the-door-and-whistle thing again. It worked so well yesterday, after all. I wouldn't want you to feel overwhelmed."

"Will you shut up?" she snapped angrily, and he continued to look pleased. The next words came out of her mouth without her even deciding to say them: "He's going to frame you, you know."

That got his attention, at least for a moment. He still looked contented and relaxed, but he arched an eyebrow and stopped smiling. "Come again?"

"Hansen. He's going to pin it all on you. Hiring me and everything. Once tomorrow comes and it's done and I'm gone and he's taking over, he's going to need a story, and you're it." Her voice sounded oddly flat to him, as though she was reciting something rehearsed. _Shouldn't she be more pleased about this?_

"How do you figure that?" he asked. He sat up straight, taking his feet off the table and angling his body towards her. "Was that always part of the plan or is it just wishful thinking on your part?"

"I just know," she said, unable to look at him as she spoke. "I can tell. It just makes sense. That's why you're even involved. That's why he used your pass code and everything, and why he made sure we were seen together. He's been covering up for you so you'd get away with it, but when it's done he's going to turn you in." She closed her eyes briefly, forcing herself to remember Hansen's voice and what he'd told her to say. He had to believe her. That part was essential. "You don't have to believe me, but that's what's happening. So you'd probably better get going sooner rather than later."

"Why would I have hired you?" he asked, sounding less amused now. "What do I have against McKean? He just gave me a medal and a pat on the back. And obviously I'm not gunning for his job. It doesn't make sense."

"Look, I don't _know_ why, but it doesn't matter," she burst out, sounding as though her restraint was cracking. "I couldn't care less what you do. I'll be long gone. I just thought you might not want to hang around and wait for the entire agency to kick down the door and drag you off to prison. It might kind of hurt that street cred you've built up."

He was silent for a moment, and she could tell he was thinking hard. Then he stood up abruptly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"What d'you mean, 'why'?"

"If it's true and that's his plan, why are you telling me? Isn't it your job to go along with everything he says?" He took a step towards her, apparently ignoring the glittering pieces of glass still on the carpet under his feet. "What do you care if they catch me?"

She didn't answer right away, and he thought he could hear her taking long, slow breaths, which was odd because he'd never been able to hear her before. Then she said, in an oddly halting voice, "Because—because I don't want anyone thinking you _could_ hire me. You're not important enough. It would hurt my future prospects with other jobs. Having you connected to this at all would...would be humiliating."

He raised his eyebrows again briefly. "Hmm," he said, and it sounded almost like a chuckle. "Well, I asked."

"And besides, I really need to clean this place," she jumped in, before he could say any more, sounding almost desperate. "So will you just get out?"

He put his hands in his pockets for a second, and then took them back out, looking, for the first time time since she'd known him, as though he didn't know his next move. "Would you like to share where you'd like me to go, or should I be calling my travel agent?" he shot at her, sounding cold.

"Go—go back to your apartment," she said, forcing herself to finish the last piece. "Lie low there for a while. I'll contact you once it's done and tell you what Hansen's plan is. After that, it's up to you."

"My apartment?"

"I know where you live, Sands." Somehow it was hard to say his name. "I read your file." When he opened his mouth to say something else, she found that she couldn't hear it and snapped "Just _do_ it, all right? I don't want to have to worry about you getting caught and giving me up before I've gotten a chance to finish everything. This is a big job for me, and I can't—" She cleared her throat. "I can't have you screwing it up."

They stood for a moment in the middle of the room, facing off, once again mimicking their pose from the night before. Then he gave a brisk sigh and reached into his back pocket, saying "Fine. How much do I owe you?"

"Owe me for what?"

"For last night." He took a fat wad of bills out of his cracked leather wallet and held them out to her. "For services rendered. I wouldn't want you to do me any favors, but you did render them very well." She said nothing, just gave a sharp exhale that sounded like the one she'd given when he'd slapped her. "Come on, sweetheart," he said quietly. "What's your going rate these days?"

"Get out," she whispered. He didn't move, he just opened his hand so that the fistful of bills showered to the floor, fluttering across the carpet. His face was set and inscrutable once more. "I said, get _out!"_ she shouted suddenly, stepping across the money on the carpet towards him and shoving him hard in the chest with both hands. "Now."

He didn't reply, just gave her a curt, ironic bow, like the one Hansen had given her, and stepped away from her into the bedroom, his hand brushing the door frame as he went. Within minutes he had gathered up all of his things and put them in the brown paper bag he was using as luggage. She thought she saw the material tearing slightly under his fingers as he crushed it in one hand, feeling for the doorknob with the other and, finally, exiting without another word to her. He didn't even bother to slam the door.

Elektra stood immobile in the middle of the room for a second, surveying the damage done and letting the truth of what needed to be done to fix it wash over her. She sank into the armchair in which Sands had sat the night before and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, so that she was looking straight down at the floor. There was no doubt in her mind anymore. Now it was just time to finish it and face what had been coming all along.


	10. Chapter 10

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer: **Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

* * *

Elektra's hands were growing raw and red, but she didn't stop scrubbing the bottom of the bathtub. She went over and over the plan in her head as she hunched there, her knees beginning to ache against the hard tiled floor, remembering everything that Hansen had said that morning. She went back and forth with herself: _you can't. It's too risky. It wasn't the original plan. _She turned on the tap and felt scalding water fleck her face, but she didn't move. _You have to. He's too dangerous. You should have done it the very first day. _It was simply time for a new plan, whether she liked it or not, and it was already in motion. It was fairly straightforward, in the main—she knew how she was going to handle him, and she had a backup plan if things went south and he surprised her. That part she really wasn't looking forward to, but it might have to be done and that was that. She couldn't believe he was still trusting her; the potential obviousness of what she was planning was what was making her hesitate. How could he _not_ see this coming? _Well, that's why he deserves it. That's just this business. _It still wasn't as airtight as she would have liked, but for a last-minute improvisation, it wasn't bad. She would just have to focus on the satisfactory part rather than the unsafe, risky, insane part. It wasn't like she hadn't done anything this insane before, anyway. She could handle it. And it was all for the best.

* * *

Sands paced the small room, smoking and growing more and more annoyed the more he thought about it. Who did she think she was, trying to order him around like that? 'Humiliating' indeed. What the fuck did she have to be so proud about? They were all the same, each and every one. Whores, agents, assassins, daughters. All the same. He'd thought she was different for a few measly seconds just because, what, she'd done some whorish tongue trick? That didn't mean she wasn't a headstrong, overblown, manipulative bitch. He couldn't believe he'd entertained that stupid little fantasy of them running off together even for a second, even as a joke. "Idiot," he muttered aloud, not sure which one of them he meant. Hadn't he learned his lesson? One romp in the sack and he was doing it all over again, letting his guard down, letting her in, letting himself think she was anything more than a half-decent lay and a pair of knives. What else did he have to lose before he stopped letting them matter? Eva, Elektra...there really wasn't much of a difference. They were all just liars—talented, maybe, in some ways, but reckless and foolhardy and completely untrustworthy, and he had no use for them. But after tonight, he'd never have to think about her again, not unless he wanted to. He was glad he didn't know her face.

* * *

She unpacked and repacked her bag a few more times, counting the bills carefully, pausing with a few fat stacks in her hands, feeling their weight. That was all it was about, really. It was just a job, and jobs were for money and nothing more. She was good at it; she could do this and everything would be back to normal, relatively speaking. Only people who had something to lose needed ever to feel afraid, and that wasn't her. She went back into the living room, giving the mini-fridge yet another wipe-down and dropping onto the carpet to check for any last minuscule shards of the glass bowl that had broken. The trash was emptied, the drains cleaned, every surface wiped off. Last, of course, was the light switches, and then the doorknob, both sides—there was no point in cleaning everything off and then leaving evidence in the most obvious places of all. She checked the clock on the bedside table; it was getting late into the evening. She went back into the bedroom and reached into her bag, pulling out a handful of red silk. It was almost time to go.

* * *

He threw himself down on the bed. _Well, she won't be so proud after tonight_, he thought irritably. He knew where he'd heard her name now, of course, and he couldn't believe she hadn't put the pieces together. _It would serve her right. She can't see the forest for the trees._ He already knew his part in the whole thing; it hadn't even been a question once he'd figured it all out, but really, it almost wasn't worth the effort. There was a perfectly good plan in motion and there was really no good reason to prevent it from playing out exactly as it was meant to. Everyone would get what they deserved and that would be that. Maybe he'd get a little peace that way. But even as he thought it, he knew it couldn't be; he knew what he had to do. He'd decided hours ago. He had to think about the big picture, even if parts of it were extremely irritating to him. That was what he did, it was logic that ruled his life and nothing else. And it just made good sense to jump in where he planned to. He got up and went to the door, listening closely. He had to time this just right.

* * *

Elektra zipped the bag and put it under the window in the bathroom, in case she had to climb up the side of the hotel and retrieve it that way, which seemed likely. Then she looked in the mirror, checking that everything was strapped to where it was supposed to be, although she wasn't bringing much—she had decided that this one would be old-school, simple, no syringes or poisons or explosives or any of it. She didn't have time for all of that, anyway, since she was rushing the end of the job. A few more days and she might have had time to set things up more neatly...but no, it was better this way. The sai pressed to her sides stayed cold; they didn't seem to want to take heat from her body. In her reflection, she could still see the bruises and and marks on her body from the previous night—they almost seemed to stand out even more clearly next to the bright, deep red of the silk. She looked away in disgust, and then she wrapped the long black trench coat around herself and tied the sash, turning off the bathroom light with a gloved hand. She walked out of the bathroom and to the door, wiping the doorknob and switch with a handkerchief. She closed the door and took the elevator down to the lobby, and slipped into the parking lot where she quickly chose a car—silver, standard make, several years old, totally unmemorable—and hot-wired it, pulling out of the lot and into the street within two minutes. There was no need to bother with cabs and all of it now; she knew the way from the past few days' trips, and she only had to sneak back to the hotel once to get her bag. Usually she laid low in the area for a time after every job, but this time it seemed better to just get the hell out of there. Besides, she wanted to be far away before she made that final wrap-up phone call. By the time the domed building loomed over the tree tops and she parked several streets away, night had fallen, a clear, starry darkness, chilly for early April. Elektra set off down the streets towards the building, her footsteps silent.

* * *

Sands closed the door quietly, one hand still on the gun in his belt. He listened for a few seconds, and, hearing nothing, moved across the room and sat back down on the couch. He didn't bother with the light; he assumed the room was dark, and that would make a nice surprise later on. It would set the tone nicely and make it clear just who had the upper hand for the time being. He kept the gun hidden down by his side; he'd want to get a few answers straight before pulling the trigger, of course—arrogant people seemed to be fond of revealing their schemes, just to prove how brilliant they were—although he was more than willing to give that up if he had to. It was just more to satisfy his curiosity than anything else; the details beyond what he'd already figured out didn't much matter. He knew fully well that he was dealing with someone clever enough and mistrustful enough to get the drop on him, but that was a risk he'd have to take—he was pretty quick himself, as he'd proven, and he didn't much mind if it was only one of them or neither one who walked out of that room...as long as it was the _right_ one. He was pretty sure he'd have time to get a few shots off no matter what was used on him (and he had a feeling that if things went badly for him, they would do so in a lingering, drawn-out sort of way), and a few shots was all he needed—he was a pretty good aim, after all. On a sudden inspiration, he got up and moved into the other room, searching along the sides of the room. There might be an upside to this after all.

* * *

She slipped silently along the side of the building, red silk sashes fluttering behind her; she had removed her coat. There was no need to hide now; anyone who saw her wouldn't be doing so for long at this point. She moved around the corner towards the entrance that she had found the day before, the one closest to the main security room, and crouched in the shadows, watching the lone guard stationed at the door, his high-powered rifle held upright in his arms. _Well, this shouldn't be a problem._ She looked around, assessing the scene—it was an open space and there was no way to sneak up on him from the side, so she'd have to come at it from another angle. She slunk back around the side of the building and found the lowest window. She took a measured step backwards and then launched herself upwards, her foot finding the very slight indent in the wall's surface. She propelled herself up the side of the wall, moving so fast that it would hardly matter if anyone had been looking out of the windows, even at this hour, and soon pulled herself up onto one of the relatively low roof, glad that this wasn't like her high-rise city jobs, where she often had to wear a parachute just in case a quick escape proved itself especially necessary. These rural jobs were, well, a walk in the park. She crept across the roof, keeping her body low, and positioned herself right above the guard. She calculated the distance quickly in her head, and then, angling herself just so, dropped silently off the side of the building and landed squarely on the guard, crushing him into a heap on the ground. He didn't even have time to make a sound before her hands were grasping his chin and his temple and she wrenched. To her, the sound of a neck snapping always sounded like bubble wrap. He collapsed and was still, and she turned around and entered the code in the keypad by the door, letting herself into the quiet building. She made straight for the control room to shut down the security in the areas she'd need to access. The two night watchmen flanking the door where Sands had stood just the other day had only the soft sound of her silk outfit rustling as a warning before she was upon them.

* * *

Sands moved back into the living room, patting his pocket with his free hand and grinning smugly—well, that had just been laziness. At least he got a consolation prize out of the whole thing. He had barely settled back down on the couch before he heard the key in the door, and he tightened his grip on his gun. The door opened, and there was a moment's silence. Then he said, "Fancy meeting you here. You're early."

There was another pause, and then, "You should've done what you were told."

"Well, you know me," he smirked. "I'm a renegade."

"That you are." A soft chuckle. "And you still haven't learned." He sensed movement to his right, and his hand jerked, but he hadn't even gotten the gun clear of his pocket before something heavy crashed down over his ear. He dropped, and heard nothing else.

* * *

Curtis McKean, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, sighed, staring down at the file on his desk. The meeting hadn't gone well at all, and he didn't know why he was reminding himself of that information by reading the information all over again. It had been a bad few months, and the next several weren't looking much better. Everything seemed to be taking turns in going wrong—if it wasn't technology, it was money, and it wasn't money, it was people. He just wasn't getting the support he'd be hoping for from a few overseas contacts, and then there was those rumors...rumors of worries far more close to home, within his own ranks, amongst the people he'd hired himself. He sighed again, swiveling his desk chair and putting the file away in the cabinet behind him. He didn't want to believe them, and wasn't sure he had reason to be paranoid just yet—they were just whispers so far and nothing more—but he couldn't get around the fact that he'd prefer just about any other enemy in the world to the ones he'd trained himself. He knew what his men were capable of, and he felt they were the best there was; what defense could there be against the best?

He sat back in the chair and glanced out the window into the night—and felt his chest constrict with fear. Reflected in the black glass, standing calmly in his doorway behind him as if waiting for a meeting, was a woman: tall, with long, dark hair, clad in red fabric that showed off her toned, athletic body. She held a long, gleaming blade in each hand, the handles wrapped with what looked like black leather. He sat for a moment without moving, and she looked right back at him, her face expressionless, holding his gaze in the window.

"So," he said finally, somewhat surprised to find that he still had a voice. "It's you. They've picked you. I guess I should be flattered." There could be no doubt about who she was, or why she was there, and he suddenly understand that those rumors had been quite true. He turned very slowly to face her, and as he did so, his eyes flickered for a fraction of a second down to his desk, and the little red button positioned on the underside.

"Don't," she said, and it was her tone more than anything else that told him there was no hope. Her voice was flat, almost bored, as if anything and everything he could think to do to stop her would only annoy her and delay the inevitable by mere seconds. He knew that if she had gotten as far as this, that meant that anyone close enough to respond to the alarm, should he push it, was already dead. He looked back at her. "Hmm," he said, with almost a chuckle. He knew enough about her to knew she never left anyone alive to tell the tale. Hell, he'd thought she was dead, and here she was. "Wouldn't do any good?"

"No," she said, her voice quiet. "It wouldn't." And the final word wasn't out of her mouth before she had crossed the room and was standing behind him, gripping a handful of his hair in one hand and drawing the edge her sai across his throat. His hands clutched pointlessly at his neck and blood flowed over his fingers, and he kicked hard underneath the desk. Elektra stepped back around him and, leaning down slightly, looked into his eyes, as she always did, desperate to know, to understand that which had been denied her. _Where are you going? What are you seeing?_ She doubted that any of her marks would have guess that she was, in that half-second, jealous of them, and the knowledge they would soon have. She'd been there, where they were, been in the ground for _months_ and knew nothing of anywhere else except here. Fate was funny that way. None of her marks ever told her anything, though. There was just that moment, that flare of fear and anger, which drained away like water to be replaced by quiet and—she wasn't sure that she could recognize it, but she guessed—something like peace. And after a moment, he went still and blank, and she sighed, wiping her blade on his sleeve and leaning over to slide the class ring off his hand to give to Hansen as his trophy. She tucked her sai back against her body and walked from the room without looking back. The job itself was done; now she just had to finish the rest of this messy affair. She felt better about the rest of it, though, now that she was working. She felt efficient, confident, back to her old self, the self that hadn't taken a dangerous job and fucked a mark and come up with this insane crack plan to prove who was boss. She was just Elektra now, the most dangerous woman in the world.

She was headed back to the door through which she had come when she felt her phone vibrate against her side. She grabbed it automatically; answering it now would be a bad idea, but it would be quite encouraging to get a new job ninety seconds after finishing the last one. But when she looked at the display, she was shocked to realize she knew the number—it was Hansen. The corridor appeared quite deserted (she had made sure of that), but she concealed herself in a corner before opening the phone and saying very softly "What the hell are you doing, calling me now? I'm not out yet."

"Hello, Ms. Natchios," he said coolly. "Job done?"

"Um, yes," she said, thrown. "But why are you—"

"Is he with you?"

Elektra took a breath. This wasn't the plan, or even the backup, exactly. "Yes," she said, her voice steady. She slipped out from her hiding place and began walking swiftly toward her exit—staying in the building any longer than she had to was looking like a bad idea.

"Really," he said. She turned a corner. "Are you sure?"

"Am I—what?" she hissed, playing for time. At that moment, there was movement at the end of the hall, and her sai was out and her arm arched to throw before she realized it was Hansen himself, emerging from a room on the side, still holding his cell phone to his ear and smiling at her in his cold way. She stared at him, astonished. Calling her was one thing, but showing up a few hundred yards from the corpse of a man he'd hired her to murder was suicidally idiotic. "What are you _doing_ here?" she whispered furiously, and then slammed the phone shut in annoyance as she realized the insanity of talking into it when he was feet from her. "Are you insane?" she demanded, looking at him. "This is the last place on Earth you should be right now."

"Come here for a moment," he said, as though he hadn't heard her, and he actually beckoned her with his finger, as though she were a spaniel. She just looked at him in astonishment, torn between shock and indignation, but after a moment she walked towards him—he had to have a reason for being this foolhardy. "What?" she demanded, once she was closer.

"In here, please," he said, ushering her into the darkened room. She stepped inside, and immediately felt her skin crawl. It appeared to be a vacant office, and sitting there, handcuffed to a desk chair and looking thoroughly careworn with new bruises blooming on his face and a bloody lip, was Sands. He seemed to be conscious; his dark glasses were gone, and he was panting slightly, his dark hair hanging in his face. He raised his head slightly when she entered. "Good of you to join us," he said, as though it was a tea party.

She turned back to Hansen. "What is this?" she asked, her voice tight. This was not even the fallback to the emergency backup to the backup plan. Hansen closed the door, and picked up a gun lying on a cabinet. Close to, she could see that he looked rather disheveled—his tie was loose, his sleeves were rolled back, and his normally perfectly-oiled hair was starting to fall over his forehead. And he was, she realized after a moment, also alone, for the first time since she'd known him, without his silent cronies by his side. The overall effect was disarming.

"Perhaps I misunderstood," he said, still in that voice of forced calm, "but I thought we had a deal."

She was caught. There was no way out of it. But she had her reasoning, so she straightened her shoulders and looked him defiantly in the eye. "We did. And you broke it."

"This morning you didn't seem at all averse to changing to plan," he replied. "And I think that's why I agreed to double your fee, if you brought him with you and finished him off right here in this building. Was that not what I told you?"

She couldn't help herself—she glanced sideways at Sands to see what he thought of that piece of information. He frowned slightly (or she thought he did; it was hard to tell on his bruised, shadowed face), but he made no comment. "Yes," she said after a moment. "That's what you _said_." She put emphasis on the last word to imply that what he said wasn't necessarily what was going to happen, but then had no further reply. She settled for looking stony and matter-of-fact.

"Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I returned to your hotel room for our meeting and found _this_ still lurking around," Hansen continued, gesturing at Sands without looking at him. "I wasn't under the impression you were in the business of going back on your word."

_Hotel room? _"What?" she said sharply, looking between them again. _That wasn't what I..._ "You went back on yours," she retorted, knowing she was sounding petulant again, but there was nothing else for it. "I decided I didn't want to play games anymore."

Hansen's eyes flashed, and she saw his grip tighten on the gun in his hand. "It's hardly a game," he said, and now she could hear how he was struggling to control himself. "I thought we were in agreement. I thought you understand that...that..." He took a steadying breath. "You know what he is; you know what he can do to...people."

"Oh, for Chrissake, man, you're not still on about that broad, are you?" Sands groaned, sounding exasperated. "Jesus, just suck it up and get a blow-up doll." In response, Hansen crossed him in two strides and hit him across the face with the butt of his gun so viciously that Elektra flinched. He hit him a second time, and Sands' head jerked back, and Hansen leaned down, his hands on the arms of the chair, their faces six inches apart.

"Shut up," he hissed. "You shut your fucking mouth." Sands turned his head primly to the side and spat out blood and what looked like half a molar onto the floor. Then, as if there had been no interruption, continued, "I'm just saying. It would be better in bed and, frankly, better conversation. I think we both know that." Hansen's lip curled, and hit him straight in the middle of the face with the gun. Blood ran from Sands' nose, and he gave a few shallow gasps, leaning his head back and licking the blood from his upper lip. A few drops fell onto his t-shirt ("orgasm donor; ask for your free sample"). "Well, at least my sinuses are clear, thanks. That's better than a Ricola."

Hansen raised his arm yet again, but Elektra barked "Knock it off, will you? God." Hansen turned to look at her, and she saw the same demented gleam in his eye that had been there in the morning when they had discussed Sands, increased tenfold now that he had his prey right in front of him. He looked insane, and was nearly panting with excitement. "You can't leave him alive," he told her, and there was a note of desperation in his voice, as if he was trying to convince her rather than command her. "He'll ruin _everything _for you. He always does. Mexico, he—he wasn't supposed to—that didn't..." He could barely string two words together; he was practically shaking. He gave a laugh that was supposed to be a derisive chuckle, but it came out wild. "He destroyed everything."

"Oh, that's good, Tommy, very dramatic," Sands said appraisingly, and it took a few seconds for Elektra to realize who he meant. "Now stomp your foot and say 'and I'd have got away with it, too, if it weren't for that meddlin' kid!'"

Hansen spun on his heel away from Elektra and this time, slugged Sands right in the gut with a fist. He lurched forward, coughing, and Hansen pressed the muzzle of the gun to his head and pushed him back against the chair. He thumbed the hammer back and twitched his hand to the side so that he was aiming straight into his left eye socket. Sands' chest heaved a few times as he got his breath back, and when Hansen did nothing, he lifted his chin defiantly so that the gun pressed harder into his flesh. "I don't have all goddamn day," he said coldly. "You going to do it or not?"

Elektra stood, frozen, watching them both—Hansen, unraveling, his smooth, arrogant demeanor completely gone as he savaged the person he hated most, and Sands, facing death yet again, fearless and obstinate to the very last. It was too bizarre. They stood like that for a few seconds, Elektra bracing herself for the shot and yet knowing she should act, and then Hansen dropped his arm.

"No," he said, and his voice was eerily calm again. "I'm not." Sands looked baffled. Hansen turned back to Elektra and held out the gun, handle first. "You do the honors."

"What?" She stared at him, an expression of astonishment on her face, but she had known this was coming, known from the first second she entered the room and saw Sands there, injured but alive, waiting for her. If Hansen had just wanted him dead, he would have killed him as soon as he saw that she hadn't done the job and saved himself the money. This was something else entirely. She looked down at the gun in his hand, but didn't reach out for it.

"Take it," he said. "You're here now. Do it."

"I—_you _do it," she shot back, immediately hating herself for how stupid it sounded, and knowing he wouldn't. "You're here too."

"_No_," he said, and he took a step closer to her, eyes gleaming. "I want it to be you. I want to watch."

"You want to _watch_?" Elektra repeated haltingly. Behind him, Sands' eyebrows shot up on his forehead and he mouthed "_wow,_" clearly knowing as well as Elektra did how insane that was. People who hired assassins didn't want to watch. It made no sense. It was perfectly counter-intuitive. They hired people like her so that they could distance themselves from it, not so they could get a front row seat. It went against everything her professions stood for. "He's _nuts_," Sands stage-whispered to Elektra, tilting his head slightly and raising his cuffed hand an inch or two from the arm of the chair to make the international sign for 'crazy' with one finger. This time, Hansen didn't even turn around. He just continued to stare fixedly at Elektra with that hungry expression on his face.

"I hired you," he told her. "It's what I want. Do it."

Everything was going wrong. This wasn't how it was supposed to have gone at all. And yet, somehow, it was as though this very scene had been decided from the start, from the minute she took the job, the minute she saw him and knew he had to die. It wasn't what she wanted, but it was what was going to happen and, she reminded herself, what you wanted didn't matter. There was only what was and what wasn't.

_You know what you have to do._

She reached out and took the gun from Hansen's sweating hand. He smiled, pleased, and leaned back against the cabinet. She felt the weight of it in her palm; so unlike her elegant blades. It was heavy and hot, and she could smell the metal. She closed her gloved fingers around it. "I'm sorry," she muttered quietly. She couldn't remember the last time she'd spoken those words aloud. They tasted unnatural in her mouth. Then she squared her shoulders, took careful aim, and fired.

She had to admit, the look of shock on his face, momentary though it was, was a thing of beauty.


	11. Chapter 11

(Written between 2005-2010, completed and revised January 2010)

**Fandom/Pairing: **Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands (Once Upon a Time in Mexico)/Elektra Natchios (Marvel comics)

**Rating: **R/MA/18+

**Timing: **Five months after the events in OUuaTiM, after Elektra's Marvel Knights run (#10-22), after Daredevil Vol. 2 #37 and before #76. And before all the Skrull-kidnap stuff.

**Disclaimer: **Characters are property of Robert Rodriguez and Stan Lee/Marvel; I own nothing.

**Notes: **Lyrics from _Sweeney Todd_ by Stephen Sondheim; also not mine.

* * *

Elektra's arm jerked back sharply from the force of the shot. She really did rather hate guns; they were so unlike her elegant blades. Guns had all the power and force inside them, and the user just had to hang on and hope it worked. With knives and swords, the wielder had to do the guiding. The power came from within, not without. It was symbiotic, between weapon and human. It was a graceful _pas de deux_. It was, when done right, beautiful.

There was no beauty in the room that she could see, however. After that first absurd moment, when he'd felt the burning impact and realized what she'd done, there was no artistry in the way he gasped and choked on the floor, his hands pressed futilely to the sucking wound in his chest. "You bitch," he panted, staring up at her. "You bitch. You'll pay for this. You'll—"

_Bang! _She fired again, aiming higher this time, and he fell back on the gray carpet without another word. There was a moment's silence. Then Sands, who had tried and failed not to jump when the shots had gone off, said "Well, that was somewhat unex—"

There was a noise behind her. She was hitting the floor and rolling over onto her back before the door had fully opened, and the two agents weren't even fully in the room before she had fired again, twice, dropping them both where they stood. Both of them had their guns out, and they flew up and out of their hands as they fell. There was another moment of quiet while Elektra sat, awkwardly half-reclined, on the floor, feeling her heart pounding against her ribs. That didn't usually happen. Then Sands piped up again. "You have some impressive reflexes, I must say." She didn't say anything, just got to her feet, taking deep, slow breaths._ I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. _She couldn't seem to stop saying it to herself, over and over, whether prayer or punishment she wasn't sure. She was still trying to believe she'd just done it, that the part of the plan she'd refused to admit to herself all day had just come shockingly, noisily true. She stared at Hansen's body on the floor, a dark stain slowly spreading out under him, and tried to remind herself that she had do it. He knew too much about her and he was too dangerous. The rest of it didn't matter. _Except, of course, that it does_.

"Uh, little help?" Sands said, calling her back to her senses. She looked over at him and saw that he had raised both hands towards her, indicating the handcuffs on both arms, and gave her an expectant look. She shook her head slightly. "Oh. Right." She moved over to him and took out her sai again, and in a moment he was rubbing each wrist in turn. She could see angry red weals on his skin even in the darkness of the room. "Thanks." He got up gingerly, his hand drifting against his side in a way that made her suspect broken ribs. He knelt down on the floor and felt across the carpet until he found Hansen, and he began to go through his pockets with casual efficiency.

"What are you doing?" Elektra demanded, as he pulled his body up at an angle by his loop and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket. He opened it and, after a moment's consideration, shrugged and pulled out a fat wad of cash and stashed it in his own pocket. "Oh, are you kidding?"

"Hey, I just spent a very unpleasant hour with this gentleman here," Sands protested, gesturing briefly at the injuries on his face and body. "Trust me, I earned it, having to listen to him yap on and on about what's-her-name and pontificate about his big, _exciting_ plans for the department and...ugh." He checked his jacket pockets. "It was worse than Sunday-morning radio. Here." He retrieved something small and dark from Hansen's left pocket and tossed it to Elektra, who caught it instinctively. "Anything interesting?"

Elektra turned the object over in her fingers. It was a computer disk in a plastic case. It was labeled; in small, cramped writing, it read 'E.N./S.S., 4/7-11.' She frowned, staring at it—something about it unnerved her, but she couldn't think why. "It's...I don't know," she muttered, thinking. She wasn't sure, since it was usually of no consequence to her, but she was fairly sure it was the eleventh of April that very day... She tucked it into the folds of her clothes, unsure.

Sands' hands were now in Hansen's upper inside pockets, and he pulled out a pair of expensive-looking sunglasses. He gave a short, sharp laugh. "Well, he owes me a pair. I should have known he'd be the sort of douchebag to carry sunglasses at night." He put them on, wincing only slightly as they brushed the cut on the bridge of his nose, and turned towards her. "What do you think?"

She just looked at him in disbelief, at his bloody face and the bruises on his arms and neck. He'd spent much of the last twenty-four hours being beaten and very nearly killed by two different people who had every reason to want him dead, and he was already back to his careless, vain, ridiculous self, trying to amuse her, unaffected by it all. She didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or start pistol-whipping him again. "You look like death warmed over."

"Ah, well." He went back to searching Hansen. "Look better than him, at least."

On a sudden inspiration, she reached into the the folds of the fabric around her middle and pulled out McKean's ring. "Here, put this in his pocket," she said, leaning over and putting it in Sands' hand. He smirked and did so.

"Good thinking. That'll throw them off completely for a good two hours." He sat back in surprise, removing his hands from the body. "Nothing," he said. "No second weapon."

"So?" In the aftermath of all the shouting and gunfire, the building seemed unnaturally quiet, even though that was precisely how she usually wanted it. A siren sounded in the distance.

"So, that means he actually handed his only weapon over to you and said 'shoot,'" he said. "And apparently didn't think you'd blow him away. Why would he be that stupid?"

She sighed. "It's...not done," she said finally. How could she explain the enormity of what she'd done? "It's...for a hitter to turn on a client, it's..." She shook her head. "Bad form."

"It's unheard of, isn't it," he said shrewdly, and she could tell he understood; he was just trying to get her to say it. "If this gets out, you're going to have a damn hard time finding another job. People like to be able to trust the murderous renegade they've hired."

"Look, he was screwing with me," she snapped. "Trust me, _he_ wasn't playing by the rules at all. He was too dangerous. I had to."

Sands dabbed blood from his face with his sleeve. _Well, that was true._ Did she maybe know more than he thought she did...? "If you say so," he said. Maybe she was playing it close to the vest as well. "I'm hardly complaining, anyway. Do you—"

A distant alarm blared from somewhere in the depths of the building. Sands got to his feet, his face going slack. "Oh, that's not what I wanted to hear," he mumbled. Elektra looked at him sharply.

"I shut down the security systems on this end of the building," she said defensively. "I assure you, there's nobody who saw me tonight who's still breathing."

"I believe you," he said. He hesitated. He was rather hoping they wouldn't have to have this conversation. "But it's not like no one knew you were coming."

"_What?"_

He shook his head. "They're telling us too much," he said, more to himself than to her. "No one could possibly know yet." He moved quickly over to the door and knelt down by the other two agents' bodies, feeling around for the guns that they had dropped. "We need to go, now."

"Wait, what is this?" she demanded. Something was extremely wrong. "What do you mean—who knew I was coming?"

He found the guns and stuck one of them in the waistband of his pants. "Look, it's kind of a long story, we don't have time to—"

"_What do you mean_?" She took a few aggressive steps towards him, and he held up his hands defensively, wincing as the pain in his chest throbbed again. Then he sighed.

"I'm pretty sure he set you up," he said. "I don't think either one of us were supposed to get out of here alive."

A chill spread over Elektra. She felt goosebumps rising on her exposed skin. The noise of the sirens outside increased, and she realized with a thrill of shock that they were meant for her. "That's insane," she said. "He _hired_ me. How is he supposed to get away with—I _did_ the hit. McKean's dead. I—"

There was the sound of running footsteps a few floors below them. "I know this is highly unpleasant to hear, and I imagine you're pretty pissed right now, but could we postpone this conversation, maybe? We have to go." She looked at him for another moment and saw that he was, for once, deadly serious. Her instincts kicked in, overriding her shock and disbelief, and she turned and moved across the room. "These windows—"

"Sealed," he said, shaking his head. "If that alarm's going off, nothing will open them. Bulletproof, too."

"Fuck." This was bad. She thought fast: she had had her exit route planned, but if she had in fact been set up, that exit was no good to her anymore. She could hide for a while—it was a big building; she could evade them for long enough to find a better way out—but that could take all night, and that would only give them time to call in more reinforcements. There was only one thing for it: she had to jump right into the middle of it and cut her way out before they had any more time to trap her. She would have to kill them all. "Okay," she said quietly. She unsheathed both sai from her sides. "I'm heading for the west exit. It's not the closest to here, but it's the most direct, and I can head them off on the stairs." She was talking herself through it, calming herself with a plan. In response, Sands shoved the bodies of the two agents away from the door with his foot and . "All right," he said. "Let's go."

She looked at him in surprise, only just registering his repeated use of the word 'we.' "Wait—what are you doing?" she asked blankly. He gave her an incredulous look.

"I'm _leaving_," he said slowly. "This party's sort of lame. I haven't had the best evening."

"But—" She looked at the gun in his hand and realized, finally, that he was with her. He understood that the only way out was straight through the barrage of agents now storming along the floor right below theirs, by the sound of it, and he was fully prepared to take them all down. To them he was either a tragic hero or a pathetic wash-up, but he was still an agent. He could have stayed behind and claimed she killed Hansen and tried to kill him, and escaped looking like impossibly brave all over again. Or he could have chained himself to the chair again and claimed to have no idea what had happened. She had no choice, but he did. "Are you sure?" she managed, awkwardly.

He gave an aggrieved sigh. He couldn't believe she was doubting him; he had decided this ages ago. Probably from the first day. "Let's keep going, Thelma," he said sarcastically. "Nothing's going to harm you." He checked the gun for ammo, and then thumbed the hammer back with a _click_. "Not while I'm around."

They left the room, her in the lead, pressed against the wall. It wouldn't do to have them come storming down the hall and trap them in the small room. They approached a corner, and she looked around it, using the shiny blade of her sai as a mirror. It looked all clear, and she edged her body around the wall. Before she was clear, however, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Someone was moving behind Sands—a man dressed in full protective gear, with his gun out and pointed straight at the back of Sands' head.

There was no time; she knew she couldn't even reach for the shuriken strapped to her thigh or shout a warning or push him out of the way before he got his shot off. She looked past Sands and saw the triumphant expression on the man's face, and fury and regret shot through her like poison—it had all been for nothing, she had thrown everything away and now he was going to die anyway. All in one moment, it seemed, she took in her breath to yell out, Sands jerked his head an inch to the side as he heard the agent moving, and he ducked. The gunshot roared through the small space, impossibly loud, and missed Sands by inched and buried itself in the wall behind him. Sands whipped around in one smooth movement and fired back. The agent's head snapped back and he fell backwards onto the floor. Elektra gaped. Half the members of the Hand didn't have reflexes like that on their best day. He sensed her standing there frozen with shock and smirked again.

"Not bad, eh?" he said, giving the gun a little twirl in his fingers.

She just shook her head. "Come on." They took off down the hall, hearing more agents bursting from the door that the one he'd just shot had presumably used, and they ran towards another corner, Sands' non-gun hand brushing her arm as they went. She checked around the corner and saw half a dozen agents blocking their way. "They're spread out about ten yards down," she breathed to Sands, barely daring to make a sound. "Aim for eleven and two o'clock." He nodded once and, without further ado, leaned around the corner and fired two shots. She heard their shouts of surprise and the sound of two bodies hitting the floor and knew he'd hit his marks again. "Two on the right, three on the left," she said, checking around the corner again.

"Come out with your hands up!" one of agents shouted. "Weapons on the ground! Now!"

"What about our list of demands?" Sands called back, almost laughing. Elektra smacked him admonishingly on the arm. "We want a Hummer limo waiting for us outside. And God help you if the fridge doesn't have any Kit-Kats."

"Knock it off," she hissed. He grinned at her through swollen lips.

"I'm just fucking with them, E.," he told her, as if this was a comfort. "Two on the right?" He whipped around the corner and fired again, but they were ready this time. A volley of gunfire responded, and Sands grabbed his upper arm with a grunt of pain as he leaned back, blood smearing on the wall. "Oh, damn it."

"Let me see it," she said roughly. Blood seeped through his fingers. She moved his hand—it was bleeding freely, but didn't look particularly deep. The bullet had only grazed the skin without going in. She yanked a silk sash from her own arm and wrapped it tightly around the wound several times. "That'll hold for now." She paused. "'E'? _Really_?" He shrugged.

"I already know an 'El.'" She stared in confusion, and he grinned. "Fuck it. Let's just do this," he said quietly, over the renewed shouts from the men around the corner. More were coming. She didn't have to ask what he meant. She reached down and pulled out three of the throwing stars.

"Stay behind me and aim high," she replied briskly. He pulled the second gun out of his waistband, and they plunged around the corner with Sands firing both guns at once and Elektra, in front of him, dodging their bullets and releasing the shuriken in rapid succession, catching three of them in the throat. With a yell, she threw herself right in the middle of the group and pinned two agents to the wall with her sai through their chests. She twisted and pulled out, turning and slashing as Sands fired past her down the hall, taking down several more who were charging towards them. All was chaos, and the two of them were in their element. They soon lost count.

"Come on," she shouted, when they were momentarily clear, and now they sprinted, heading straight for the stairwell. It was locked, but Sands said "Stand back" and found the lock with one hand and firing into it. She reared back and kicked it open, and they thundered down two flights with stopping until they reached the bottom, where he hastily reloaded before they burst through the door onto the first floor. Another gaggle of guards waited for them there, but they dispatched them quickly, with Sands taking down the first flank with his impeccable aim and Elektra leaping right into the thick of it, a sai in each hand. She leaned towards Sands again as she kicked out sideways at an oncoming agent, her arm hurtling down to catch him in the abdomen with the blade. She felt Sands press his back against hers at the two of them turned on the spot, firing and slicing. Once they were clear again, she grabbed his uninjured arm and they headed straight for the side door, staying close to the wall, away from the windows through which they could see yet more figures running into the building. "Damn, they're serious," he panted, as if surprised. "Don't know when to quit."

"Yeah, they rarely do." They shot through the door, and another alarm began to wail, but it hardly mattered. Instead of heading to the right, to the front of the building and the main road, where she knew there'd be even more back-up waiting, she pulled him around to the left, towards the trees that framed the edge of the grounds. In the dark, they'd be impossible to see. "We'll cut through here," she said to him, and he followed closely. Soon they were on the edge of the grounds, and she gave him a leg up before vaulting herself over the fence. She ran towards the first car she saw parked along the street and smashed in the left backseat window with the butt of her sai. She reached in and unlocked the doors, and they climbed in. She used the end of her sai to rip off the cover of the ignition tumbler and, after she fumbled with the wires for a moment, the car roared to life and she peeled out of the spot, heading around the back end of the grounds.

"Well," Sands said, leaning back in the seat. "That was fun. I need a cigarette." Elektra rolled her eyes. He found his wrinkled plastic packet and his silver lighter in his pocket; his hands were shaking so badly that it took several tries to light the one he placed between his lips. There was another moment's silence as he exhaled gratefully, and then he said "So you want to fill me in?" at precisely the same moment that she said "Start talking."

He chuckled. "You first."

"_Me_ first? Did you miss what just happened back there? All that fun 'he set you up' stuff?"

"And _I_ just had a gun pointed at my head, and you apparently were supposed to shoot me," he shot back. "You first."

She sighed, irritated, twiddling the wheel more sharply than she intended to. "Fine. He tried to add you to the bill at the last minute, and I wasn't having it. He threw us together because he wanted you dead and he figured you'd annoy me enough that I'd kill you, or I'd do it just to tie up loose ends at the end, or...something."

He nodded, as though this was only reasonable. "Why not just off me himself?"

"Good question," she muttered balefully. "I don't know, it was something about...I think it was, you know, Eva." Somehow, even after she'd spat it at him the night before, she didn't want to say her name. "He was pretty mad about that."

"Yeah, I gathered," Sands said wearily. "He mentioned it during all the..." He made lazy punching gestures in the air. "What, was he banging her?"

She looked over at him in surprise. "You didn't know?"

He shrugged. "I never asked. I don't even know how he knew her, but I'm assuming he was giving her the low soft one if he was that pissed off."

She frowned. "Didn't they work together?"

"No. I told you, she wasn't CIA."

"But—" She had just assumed he'd been lying. "Then how did _you_ know her?"

"She was with the agency down there. Mexico," he added, when she said nothing. "I met her when I was on assignment down there a while back, and I suggested a bit of inter-agency cooperation, and...well, I told you." He took another long drag from the cigarette. "It went badly."

"She betrayed you," she said, avoiding looking at him as she said it, but wanting to confirm her guess. "She was the one who...you know. She was working with Barillo."

"'Working with,'" he muttered. "She was...well, yeah. Let's just say she was right in his inner circle." He didn't clarify beyond that, and she didn't ask. But it still didn't all fit.

"But her files," Elektra protested. She explained briefly about searching through the computer system for her files, and then for anything about Mexico at all, and finding everything wiped. Sands gave a rueful chuckle.

"Well, there's only one person who could've done that, I suppose." He shook his head. "Should have known he'd have a finger in every pie. So to speak. Hell, maybe he's the only reason she ever bothered with me in the first place. Maybe he told her to." He was sure he should feel something about that, but he felt nothing except a heavy sense of understanding. It really did all fit quite logically. He should have known. It made him feel older.

"Hansen," she said, and he nodded. "So if he was involved with...her, and she was involved with everything that happened to you, and he's the one who covered everything up..." She waited for him to fill in the rest, but he said nothing, so she continued. "I'm pretty sure he was involved with the whole president thing down there. The assassination attempt, and all of it."

"That fits," he said, considering. "When he was—" he made the punching gesture again "—he said—well, he said a lot of things; after a while it just sounded like 'blah blah blah Ginger' to me, but he said something like 'you're not getting away this time' or 'you thought you had it easy last time' or...something. Something Bond-villainy like that." He exhaled slowly, absently tapping the gun still in his hand against the passenger door. "I'm guessing I really _wasn't _supposed to make it out of there."

"He was playing both sides, just like she was," Elektra filled in. "He forged all her files to make her look like she was CIA so he could...pass her information, or whatever, and then when you got involved, he told Barillo to kill you. But he didn't," she added unnecessarily, and Sands gave a quiet snort of laughter. _Understatement. _"Then when you made it back, he deleted everything so he could take care of you in his own time."

"That's the whole kit and caboodle, I guess," he concluded. "Awful lot of dramatics over a chick, don't you think?"

"That's what people do," she said simply. "If people didn't get insanely jealous and crazy about stupid things, I wouldn't have a job." He chuckled again. "Now, get to the set-up part."

He sighed again. "He...well, I think we know he's good at playing both sides by now," he began. "And while I assume he hired you for McKean because you're the best hitter out there and he genuinely wanted him out of the way, I'm...thinking there was a second part to that plan that he didn't mention. Third, I guess, if you include the fun little footnote about me."

"Which was?"

He lowered the window and flicked his cigarette butt out of it, and then said, "To make himself look really, really nifty and clever by bringing you in, or killing you. He was after you. For a long time. He was kind of in charge of the hunt."

"_What_?" She turned sharply to look at him, and in her agitation she jerked the wheel hard to the side, and the car swerved. Sands reached out instinctively to grab the dashboard, and winced as pain tore through the bullet wound in his arm. "Whoa," he said, as a passing car blared its horn angrily. "Not that I'm offering to take over, but could you try to avoid killing us, maybe? I don't think I could stand the irony." Deciding that this conversation now deserved her full attention, she pulled up beside a diner on the side of the road and parked in the almost-empty lot. "There," she said. "Start at the beginning."

"I don't _know_ the beginning," he said hastily. "A few years back, we were all briefed on you at a general meeting, and then he was picked to put together a task force to get you. He didn't pick me. I wonder why," he added sarcastically. "We all knew it was sort of a thing with him—he was really intent about bagging you, but everyone thought it was sort of a joke." He pulled out another cigarette and lit it, and she lowered her window in annoyance. "I mean, I don't want to pump any sunshine up your skirt here, but the stories we heard...hardly anyone believed you could be real. You were like an urban legend or something. And then there was a rumor a while back that you were dead, but _he_ wouldn't believe it..." He waved a hand impatiently. "Anyway. He had a real hard-on for you for a while—not that I blame him—and I'm guessing he thought it'd be fun to have you do all his dirty work and then put one in your head and come off looking like Wile E. Coyote finally catching the roadrunner."

"And _all this time_ you knew he was after me?" she demanded furiously. "Any reason you didn't mention it?"

"I only put it together today," he protested. "I wasn't on his team. I didn't get it until you, uh, _mentioned_ your name." He heard her shifting uncomfortably and imagined she was blushing. "I'm not great with faces these days—how was I supposed to know?" He paused, and then couldn't resist adding, "The red outfit, right?" He clicked his tongue and reached over to stroke the silk laying against her thigh, but she swatted him away angrily.

"But he _hired_ me," she repeated. "I mean, he paid me. I did the hit. We met several times—how was he supposed to get away with...?" She trailed off, thinking, remembering everything he'd said. "You," she said, after a beat. "He was going to pin it all on you, like I said. All that crap about how your key code could be anyone's...he's got a trail of evidence a mile long. That's why he wanted me to kill you in the office. He would say you hired me and he was too late to save McKean, but he found us and killed you and captured me, or killed us both...that's why he always had those guys with him. He didn't want to be alone with me, because he didn't trust me at all. So when they heard the shots..." She replayed the scene in her head, remembering how they'd burst in with their guns draw a second after she'd shot Hansen. "That was the signal. They thought I'd shot you, and..."

He was nodding. "Pretty sneaky, sis," he said. Then he frowned. "Kill me in the _office_? Why'd you tell me to go back to my apartment, then?" She squirmed. _Busted_. He grinned. "You weren't going to do it, were you. You said you would, but you never planned to."

"I told you, he wasn't playing by the rules," she shot back roughly. "I heard him—he just assumed I'd do you for free. Shut up," she added quickly, seeing him open his mouth to gleefully reply to that. "He wasn't going to pay me the rest of the original fee if I didn't. He only tried to officially 'hire' me for it and pay extra once I called him out on it. And he was never actually going to pay me the rest anyway, was he."

"But you didn't know that," he observed. "You didn't know he was after you. You just weren't gonna do it." He couldn't help but be highly amused at this turn of events. "Aw, honey, that's sweet. What were you going to do, call me afterwards and say 'run, Forrest, run for your life'?"

"It wasn't like that," she snapped, and he knew it was, exactly. "I just...it wasn't how the job works. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. I thought I'd, you know, show him how it was supposed to be done. So I just told you to get out of the way and—_wait_ a minute." She had just remembered something else he'd said. "You _didn't_ go back to your apartment. He said he found you in the hotel room. What's _that_ about?"

Now it was Sands' turn to look uncomfortable. "You read my file. I don't follow directions well."

"Yeah. Nice try. Where did you go when you left?"

He huffed in frustration, like a teenager caught in a lie. Eventually he said, "Broke into the room next door. I listened for you to leave, and when you did, I went back in."

"Any reason other than sheer contrariness?"

"Well, I knew he was after you, didn't I? And I figured you'd come back to the room to lie low or clean up and get your stuff or whatever, but I figured he'd be there waiting for you. So I thought I'd stay there and get him before he got you."

She stared in disbelief. "What do you care if he _got_ me? You didn't know he was after you, too."

"No, I didn't," he admitted. "But I thought about it, and..." He shrugged. "I did a cost-benefit analysis, and I figured if one of you had to go, it should be him. You're a world-class killer, you don't work for anyone but yourself, and you're far better in bed. Wasn't a hard choice."

"But if you knew he was coming there to wait for me to capture me or kill me or whatever his plan was, didn't you think he'd just kill you first if you were in the way? What possible reason could he have for leaving you alive?"

"I thought of that. I figured I could get him before he got me—I'm a pretty good shot, you know," he said smugly. "But, you know, whatever."

"'But, you know, whatever?'" she repeated, starting to laugh. "I don't know, Sands, sounds like a bit of a risk to me. Sounds like it would have been a _lot_ smarter to just go to your place and get out of the way, huh? You must have had a pretty good reason to stay there and risk your neck with a guy like that."

"Don't flatter yourself," he fired back. He couldn't have explained it if he wanted to, how he just couldn't let it happen, how it just somehow mattered to him that she was in the world. He couldn't have put into words how the past few days, as he'd bantered with her, fought with her, fucked with her, watched her work, taken her bullshit, given her some in return, figured out a mystery and hatched a plan, and finally busted his way out of that fucking place with her by his side, leaving a trail of all those sneering, mocking, pitying jackholes in their wake—they'd been the first times in which he was glad he hadn't died on that hot street in Mexico. "You're one to talk, anyway, Double-Crossing Debbie. Didn't he tell you he'd pay you quite a bit to off me? I don't think you thought he was still going to hand it over once he realized you'd told me to skedaddle. And as you said, I don't think capping him is going to make you look very good to your next employers. I don't think you're getting a letter of recommendation out of this job."

"Yeah, well," she muttered. "I have my principles." And she'd sooner have killed him and then herself right there in that parking lot before she'd admit it, but her principles included not killing people who said things like "if you're good enough not to get caught, then you deserve to continue." He understood. She had never met anyone like him, and she couldn't take the risk that she'd find another one like him out there somewhere. "Besides, it's not like I'm strapped for cash, I hardly needed—_shit_!" She pounded the steering wheel in sudden anger. "Damn it, the money!"

"What money?"

"The money he already gave me—the money in my bag—in the room," she burst out furiously. "We can't go back there. If he was after me, there's no way that place isn't on lockdown right now. Son of a _bitch_." She hit the steering column again; it was certainly true that would have been more than set for life if she never worked another job again, but the idea of walking away from _this_ job not a penny richer than she'd been a week before was positively maddening. "All my stuff is in there, too. My DNA is all over everything in that suitcase. God _damn_ it."

"Mine's not," he jumped in cheerily. "Since you cleaned everything and all. That was a pretty smart move."

"Your blood's all over that room at HQ," she shot back. "And in the hall where you were dumb enough to get hit." She hesitated—that was another part of it. "I hope you're not planning to go back to the office on Monday, by the way, because I don't think you're exactly their golden boy anymore." It was over, she realized. Her whole job involved being invisible and hiding, but he was now a fugitive. His career, shady and disloyal as it may have been, was over as soon as he'd put a bullet in that first agent's head.

As if she'd voiced this last part, he just chuckled wryly and said "That was a done deal several months ago, wouldn't you say? I've been thinking about taking up crochet anyway, and that'll really take up all of my time, so." Then he remembered something else. "And as far as your financial issues go, there's a bit of good news." He gingerly reached down and dug around in the front of his pants and pulled out several bound stacks of bills. "Ta-da. And don't be like that, it's not like you haven't been in there," he added, feeling her recoil.

"What...is this mine?" she asked, picking up one of the stacks. Then she realized, "Wait, you _stole_ this from my bag?!"

"It's just a few thousand!" he protested, snickering and holding up an arm to shield himself from her furious strikes. "Come on, if I actually made it out of there, I was going to need something to escape with. Either way, I was going down for this, either because of you or Hansen or someone. You just left it lying there, anyway."

"You're an asshole," she snapped, grabbing the stacks off of the cup holders between the seats and stuffing it in the pocket on her door. "Well, great, I just made a thousandth of my usual fee to off a government head, a middle-ranking agent and about twenty others. That's just lovely."

"Oh well, we had a few laughs, didn't we?" he offered. "It was like a wacky vacation story. I wish I had photos for my scrapbook."

_Photos_...that was something else. "There's still something I don't get," she said suddenly. "What was that whole 'I want to watch' thing about?"

"Yeah, that was weird," he agreed, the smile fading from his face to be replaced by a furrowed brow. "That was a little porny even for me."

"I mean, he thought I was just going to kill you in the room, either right before I did the hit or when I came back or something," she reasoned. "Once I found out about everything, that's when he told me to take you with me on the hit and kill you _there_, and then he'd kill me once I got back to the room, as you said..." She removed the scarf from around her head, letting her hair fall loose and running her fingers through it distractedly. "Why would he bother coming to headquarters? That was insanely risky. Why not just kill me in the room and get to you later? Why was it so important that _I..._"

"You said it was something to do with—her," Sands said. Now that he knew even more of her treachery, he wanted to say Eva's name aloud even less. "You said it was because he was all hacked off about that."

"Yeah, he said—when I found out this morning about the whole thing with you, he said it'd be fitting for me to kill you because of what you did to her. Because we're...I guess we're similar in some ways, I don't know."

"Not that similar," he assured her. "But that still doesn't fit. If he wanted to watch you off me—and frankly, I get the appeal—how would he do that if you just did it in the room or right after McKean? He wouldn't be there."

"No, he wouldn't." She put her forehead against the wheel, her brain aching from the effort of unraveling all of this nonsense. _I want to watch, it's what I want...she wants to. It's obvious, just look at that..._And then her hand flew to waist and she gasped. "Holy shit."

"What?"

She fumbled in the folds of silk around her waist and pulled out the disk Sands had found on Hansen's body. 'E.N./S.S., 4/7-11.' "Sands," she choked, staring at it in her hand, shock enveloping her in waves. "He bugged us. He recorded everything. It's all right here."

"_What_?" She put the disk in his hand, and his eyebrows shot up in surprise. "It has our initials on it and this week's dates," she told him. "That was going to be his proof. He has hours of us in the room, together, all of it—"

"What, audio recordings? That would never work." He shook his head. "There's no way they could prove it was us."

"No," she breathed. "Not audio." She realized now, it all made sense—it had been right in front of her from the start. The workman who had been in the hotel room when they first arrived—he addressed Hansen, called him by name, because he knew him. Hansen had hired him to bug the room. She hadn't noticed what passed between them after that because Sands had panicked at the sound of the drill and she'd dragged him into the next room. And earlier that day... "They were watching it. When I came in, they were watching it," she murmured in disbelief. That hadn't been any black-and-white movie on the TV when she'd burst into Hansen's hotel room. They had been watching the footage of her room, hers and Sands', and...

"Came in _where_?" Sands demanding, breaking into her reverie, and she realized she'd left that part out.

"His hotel room. Hansen's. When I found him this morning, he was—"

"He had a room at the hotel? Our hotel?"

"_Yes_," she said impatiently. "I was running, and I got out on the wrong floor, and I heard them talking and I knew it had to been him and I listened at the door and I heard them talking about me—about us—and how he wasn't going to pay me unless I killed you, and I ran in and they were watching it, but they turned it off and I didn't see—he must have seen me throw you out and knew I had gone back on what I said and wasn't taking you with me, and then you went back in—"

"What d'you mean, the wrong floor?" he demanded, cutting across her babbling. "What floor? Where was his room?"

"I don't _know_," she exclaimed, but then realized that she did. "No, wait—it was the seventh floor." She forced herself to see the room's door in her mind's eye. "Room seven-six-one."

"Oh, fuck me," Sands groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Yeah, OK, he was taping us."

"Why? What does that mean? How do you know?"

"We were in eight sixty-one," he said tiredly. "He was in seven sixty-one. He was right below us. If he wanted to tape us, he needed to be nearby. He was only a few feet away, straight down." He pointed to illustrate the point. "It'd be no problem to run a wire straight through the floorboards and get a clear signal. And I assume he had all of HQ wired up as all. I know you said you took care of all the security stuff," he added, before she could jump in. "But let's face it, he probably had an override on your override from the start. I'm sure that whole lovely scene is on file somewhere." He scoffed. "If I haven't said it already, good job capping him. That was definitely the right call." Then, slowly, an evil smile took over his face. "Wait. But if he was recording everything..."

Elektra's skin seemed to crawl with horror as she realized what he was saying. "No," she said, although she didn't know what should could be disputing. "No, no, he couldn't—it _can't_ have been—"

"Oh, man, that is _superb,_" he burst out, with another bark of laughter. "That's exquisite. He's sitting there watching and hoping you'll stick your little sword in me any minute, and instead I'm the one who—"

"_No_," she repeated wildly, as he laughed. "He couldn't have seen it. He didn't have time. And—and the lights," she added desperately. "The lights were off. I knocked over the lamp when I threw the sai at you. It was black-and-white, he couldn't have—it didn't have night-vision..." She trailed off, her brain whirling, trying to remember everything she'd heard. _She wants to. Look at that. That was just a taste; she'll finish it_. "He saw us _fight_," she said, clinging to the idea. "He saw us fight, and then I knocked over the lamp and he thought I killed you. And he heard us crashing around through the floor as well." They had, she knew, been surprisingly quiet in bed. There had been no need for any more theatrics once they got down to it. "He thought I killed you, and that's why he looked at you like that this morning when he was at the door."

"Like what?" he asked, still laughing. "Like 'excellent score, bro'?"

"No, like he'd seen a ghost," she said acidly, remembering the momentary look of shock and anger that had flickered across his face when he saw Sands stroll out of the bedroom behind her. "He saw us fight. That's it. Just fight." Somehow, it felt necessary to say it several times to will it into truth. "He would have said something about it to me or to you sometime today, but he didn't. He doesn't know. And we've got it right here," she added, leaning over and tapping the disk still in his hands. "We've got all the evidence right here. So, it's...fine."

"Whatever you have to tell yourself," he told her patronizingly. "I'm quite sure he didn't make any copies at all, and he was carrying the only evidence around in his pocket. And I'm sure in the entire Central Intelligence Agency there's no one technologically advanced enough to clean this up. I mean, the _lights _were out." He shook his head in mock solemnity. "That footage is _gone_. It's the eighteen minutes on the Watergate tapes." He patted the disk in his hand fondly. "At least we've got this one. I think I'm gonna sell it on the internet and make a fortune. 'One Night in Greece.'"

"Oh, fuck you," she snapped. She massaged her forehead—he was, of course, right. There was no way to know what Hansen had seen or what he'd done with the tapes, or if he'd already sent them elsewhere. He had, however, proven himself to be exceedingly shrewd and good at planning ahead (although he had admittedly walked into a room with an assassin and handed her his only weapon, so it was hard to say). She knew one thing, though: she had to get out of that town as soon as possible, that very night. She started the car again. "Well, that settles it."

"Where to?" he asked, settling back into the seat again. "Going to scour every adult video store in the state?"

"Airport," she said. "I've got to leave."

"Probably a good idea," he agreed soberly. "Where will you go?"

"I'm not sure." She chewed her lip, thinking. "Far. Japan, maybe. I have a friend who's living out there, I think."

"You have friends?"

"A few." She glanced sideways at him. "You should probably think about putting some distance between yourself and here as well, you know. And you can't really go home to pack first, either."

"Yes, I figured as much," he said, half amused and half annoyed at the way she kept forgetting he had some experience in these things as well. "Any suggestions?"

"Not Mexico," she said slyly, and he chuckled softly. "Anywhere. Just...somewhere you can blend in."

"And...far away from you," he said, as if testing her. "As far as possible, perhaps. If you're going to Japan, I should go to Brazil; that the idea?"

"Well—yes, that's probably best," she said hesitantly. She hadn't really thought of it that way, but it did made sense. "They'll certainly be coming after us both. Staying together would just make it easier for them."

"We do stand out a bit," he agreed. "Besides, we've got a bit of an 'Odd Couple' thing going on. I think I'd kill you after a few days."

"Not if I killed you first." They were silent for a few moments, and she turned onto the highway. "Well, at least we have a bit of cash."

"Yeah, thanks to my forward-thinking cleverness." He grinned. "'We'? Does that mean you're going to throw me a few shekels to get out of Dodge?"

"Well, I can't have you hanging around outside the airport panhandling for airfare," she shot back dryly. "They'd catch you in ten minutes. And you'd probably give me up in the next five."

"Probably." He nodded. "So that's settled."

"Right. We definitely can't stick together." Just like when she was reassuring herself about the tapes from the hotel room, she seemed to need to say it aloud a few times. "That'd be insane."

"It surely would," he said lightly. "We'll go our separate ways and stay on opposite sides of the globe, and I'll get the kids every other weekend and Thanksgiving, all right?"

She snorted. "Yeah. Good plan."

It was very early morning by now, and the darkness seemed to be at its richest depth. She could just make out faint stars out above them, fading and disappearing as the green-tinged lights of the Dulles airport came into view off in the distance. She didn't usually bother noticing stupid things like stars when she was on the job, but it seemed the sort of thing to do now, now that she was in a new place, not in the middle of a job or planning the next one, not just existing and waiting for something to happen. There weren't many cars on the highway at this hour, and it was quiet except for the sound of the wheels thrumming against the asphalt, the wind whistling through the broken window in the back and the soft sound of Sands smoking his third or fourth cigarette. She cracked the window again and made a mental note to hide his stash as soon as she got a chance, whenever and wherever they landed. Neither of them felt the need to acknowledge the lie they'd just spun for themselves; it was just another one of those things that didn't need to be said. At this point, there was no reason to pretend they could outrun each other, because they were in the same place and always had been—neither here nor there, neither dead nor quite alive, neither entirely light or entirely dark. Just in the middle.

-FIN-


End file.
